


Power of Two

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: Power of Two [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Also eventually, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, D/s, Dom/sub, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Drama, Happy Ending, M/M, Nipple Piercings, One Night Stands, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Praise Kink, Recovery, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Sex Before Feels, Sex Toys, Strangers to Lovers, Switching, Under-negotiated Kink, eventually, switch Bull
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:52:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 179,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4258899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dorian and Bull pick each other up at a club, Dorian's family disapproves, and Max and Krem think this is all a terrible idea right up until they don't.  Dorian's father dies, Dorian's mother is cold, and Bull wonders how the hell he let himself get dragged into this (and then remembers: because Dorian).</p><p>***********************************************************</p><p>When I started writing this story, it was supposed to be fluff and angst of the "one-night stand that isn't" variety, with a side order of fake-relationship silliness. It was also supposed to be 10,000 - 15,000 words long. And then somewhere along the way, it became a story about two people with shitty pasts trying to figure out how to build a healthy relationship without any real template to work from.</p><p>Let's not even talk about the word count, and the only thing I'll say about the chapter count is that it's an estimate. At one point, we were ten chapters from the end for...uhhhh...about ten chapters. Barring a meteor hitting me in the head, I <em><strong>will</strong></em> finish this story, but I have absolutely no idea how long that will take, either in words or in months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Little Less Talk

**Author's Note:**

> So we're ok, we're fine  
> Baby I'm here to stop your crying  
> Chase all the ghosts from your head  
> I'm stronger than the monster beneath your bed  
> Smarter than the tricks played on your heart  
> Look at them together then we'll take them apart  
> Adding up the total of a love that's true  
> Multiply life by the power of two
> 
> Indigo Girls, "Power of Two"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well she was fighting them off  
> At a corner table  
> She had a longneck bottle  
> She was peeling the label  
> The look on her face  
> It was perfectly clear  
> She said somebody please  
> Get me out of here  
> The look she shot me  
> Through the glass refraction  
> Said a little less talk  
> And a lot more action
> 
> Jimmy Alan Stewart and Keith W. Hinton, "A Little Less Talk and a Lot More Action"

Dorian leans on the high-top table and shifts his weight to his other foot, surveying the crowded club with interest. At eleven o'clock on a Friday night, it's not yet packed, but there are still plenty of people around and no need to fight for a table. Even if the smaller crowd means he can't find someone to take home, he likes watching the people and he really likes not wearing his drink all over the front of his shirt.

Over the noise of the club, Max shouts in his ear, "Quit looking and pick someone! You haven't gotten laid in four months!"

Dorian turns to give him a quelling look. "Why thank you. Do you think you could repeat that a little louder? I believe there may be one or two people outside who didn't quite catch it."

"I'm just saying, we're here to celebrate, so let's celebrate!" Max raises his highball glass and clinks it against Dorian's, who takes a sip of his Coke to show willing. "If you're not going to drink," Max adds, "the least you can do is be promiscuous. I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that you get disbarred if you don't have some kind of self-destructive vice by the time you've made partner. And as you have now made partner, you really need to get on that."

Dorian grins and takes a longer drink from his glass, though the only buzz he's going to get off the contents will be from the caffeine. As he lowers the glass, his gaze falls on a guy by the bar: tall as fuck, head shaved, dark skin a startling contrast to the brilliant white of his t-shirt. The guy is watching him, and he smiles when Dorian meets his eyes.

Well, when Dorian's eyes meet his eye, as he's only got one. Whether the eyepatch covering the other is a temporary or permanent feature, Dorian doesn't know, and doesn't actually much care. The guy looks good, and he's got a smile that's wide and wicked, and Max is right, it has been too damn long.

"You know what," Dorian says, looking away from the bar as his heart starts to beat a little faster in anticipation, "you're right."

Max clutches his chest melodramatically. "Sweet Jesus, let me mark my calendar."

"Ha. Ha. Just for that, I'm leaving you now." Dorian drains his glass and starts toward the bar, only to turn back and ask, "You need anything?"

"I'm good," Max says, shaking his own glass gently. "Software developers aren't required to be alcoholics, so I'm going to give it a few more years before I really start pickling my liver."

"Amateur," Dorian says, and Max laughs.

Dorian takes another step toward the bar, then pauses to tug on the front of his shirt, more from nerves than an actual need to straighten anything. It's been a long time since he last tried to pick anyone up in a club, a lot longer than the four months it's been since he last had sex. Does he even look all right? He let Max talk him into jeans and a button-down shirt, but he's spent so much time lately in a suit and tie that he feels hideously under-dressed now.

"You look fine," Max calls from behind him, and Dorian laughs even as he feels his face flush with embarrassment. "Seriously. If he doesn't drop to his knees and offer to suck you off on the spot, you know I'll do it for you."

Around them, several people have turned to stare, and Dorian closes his eyes for a moment, torn between laughter and annoyance. A common state of affairs around Max, and not only for Dorian. Probably just as well the man doesn't want a relationship with anyone, because Dorian can't imagine someone saintly enough to put up with his shit on a routine basis.

Before Max can offer any other helpful suggestions, Dorian tugs his shirt one last time and pulls himself together. Max and the embarrassment he's caused go in their own little box in Dorian's head, and he puts on the confident swagger he usually reserves for work. It's a skill he can thank his parents for, and as little as he wants to thank them for anything, it's certainly useful. He fixes his mind firmly on the present and ignores everything else as he begins to push his way through the crowd in search of his quarry.

The guy was huge, towering over everyone else around him, so he shouldn't be hard to spot, but Dorian scans the club with no luck. The crowd is thick enough that it takes him several minutes to reach the bar, and Dorian has just about decided that the guy's gone, when he reaches the bar and sees him again.

Unfortunately, the sight is not encouraging. The guy is bent over at the waist--which explains why he seemed to disappear in the space of a few seconds--talking to a pretty young woman who's smiling up at him, leaning forward and up on her toes to get close enough to talk to him.

His body language is harder to read than hers, and Dorian holds out a faint hope, until the guy leans down to say something in her ear that makes her laugh.

Ah well. With a philosophical shrug and a mild twinge of regret, Dorian debates the relative merits of continuing on his current course or returning to Max. Max, who will tease him unmercifully if he comes back alone. And it seems a shame to waste the effort it took to get himself in the right frame of mind.

The bar it is, then.

###

Aware that his staring is in danger of crossing the line into creepy, Bull forces himself to look away from the guy at the high-top in the corner, but wow. That's some smile, and it's making Bull rethink his initial evaluation. He noticed the guy right off--Bull's short _one_ eye, not two--but he kept to the bar and watched for a little while, trying to decide if he actually wanted to make a move. The last person Bull picked up at this club was a little too fond of head games, and he's learned to be wary.

It's not clear from watching the guy whether he likes that sort of thing, and Bull's never had much patience for people who play hard-to-get. Either someone is interested or they're not, and outside the bedroom and the defined limits of a safeword, he has better things to do than chase someone who can't be bothered to say yes. He's not going to play some stupid game where he has to leave an unspecified and ever-changing number of messages before he's rewarded with a return call.

Right up until the guy smiled, Bull had him tentatively classified as the kind who would play those games, but now he's not so sure. That smile wasn't even a little bit coy.

Someone punches him in the arm, and he looks down to see Lace grinning up at him. She says something he can't hear over the noise, so he leans closer. "Say again?"

"See something you like?" she asks, leaning in to get her mouth a few inches closer to his ear.

"Oh yeah," he says, picturing that smile again.

"So go get 'em," Lace says, laughing.

"Wouldn't want to leave you all by your lonesome."

"Puh-lease," she says. "Krem'll be here soon, and Cabot'll keep an eye on me in the meantime, make sure I don't get into too much trouble."

Behind her, Bull can see Krem making his way through the crowd now, so he leans down even farther despite the protest from his back and murmurs in her ear, "Make that boy take you someplace nicer than this dive. And his bedroom doesn't count."

Lace throws back her head and laughs, and Bull grins himself. She's pretty on her own, and even prettier when she laughs. She might be Krem's girlfriend, but Bull can still appreciate the view, even if he has no interest in touching.

Which reminds him of the guy with the killer smile. Bull's definitely interested in exploring the possibility of some touching, there. "You kids have fun," he says and straightens, rubbing at his back. Too many years jumping out of perfectly good airplanes, that's his problem, but the ache in his back isn't his primary concern right now.

Unfortunately, the guy with the smile isn't at the table where Bull last saw him. His friend is still there, still nursing his drink, but the other guy, the one Bull actually wanted to talk to, has vanished into the crowd.

Bull looks at the friend left behind at the table and replays the interaction he watched between the two men a few minutes ago, just to check himself. Based on the little he saw, they're close, intimate even, but definitely not lovers and probably not fuck buddies. Which is the happy conclusion Bull came to the first time, and still completely useless now that the other guy has disappeared.

For a second, he considers wandering over to chat up the friend. He's not bad looking, and he's currently alone, surveying the crowd with a superior little smile on his face. In Afghanistan, Bull knew a Brit who would have called this guy a posh tosser: lord and master of all he surveys.

Right, no thanks.

About to give up and see if Krem and Lace's plans for the evening are actually something family-friendly, the crowd parts for just a second, and the guy's right there, less than twenty feet away. He's turned in profile to Bull, his elbows propped on the bar and taking up way too much space for a Friday evening. Cocky son of a bitch. Not that Bull necessarily considers that a bad thing, depending on what else goes with it. For that face, and especially that smile, Bull's willing to at least risk a conversation.

Bull begins pushing his way through the crowd, which of course has decided to unpart itself now that he's trying to get through. His height and broad shoulders help, though, as people move automatically out of his way, and he's careful to smile as he goes. No point pissing anyone off, though it's a little early in the evening for any guys to be drunk enough to want to pick a fight just for the perceived macho points they'll get from taking on someone as big as Bull.

Just before Bull reaches him, the guy turns and sees him. Both of his eyebrows go up, which isn't nearly as welcoming as the smile when their eyes first met across the club. Still, Bull's here now, so he leans one hip against the bar, close enough to talk comfortably, and says with a grin, "So I'm going to stick with the classics. I don't think I've seen you around here before. Come here often?"

The guy's mouth twitches. "Not often, no. A friend of mine recommended it, and I thought I'd give it a try."

"What do you think so far?"

"Not bad," he says. "It's more of a mixed crowd than I was expecting. I'm more used to seeing straight clubs with a few gay people hanging around, or gay clubs with a few straight people hanging around."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Then Bull realizes he still doesn't know the guy's name, and he holds out one hand. "I'm Bull, by the way."

"Dorian." He's got a good firm handshake, and he doesn't try to hold on too long. Which is kind of a shame, really, since he's even hotter up close than he was from a distance. He also doesn't even raise an eyebrow at Bull's name, or ask something stupid like, "Really?" which is definitely a relief.

"So...mixed crowd. Good thing or bad thing?" Bull asks.

"A bit of both," Dorian says. "More fun to watch, but sometimes you guess wrong when you think someone's interested." There's nothing in his tone to indicate Dorian's doing anything other than making polite conversation, but Bull wonders anyway. Is that a hint to back off?

God he hates guessing games.

"What about you?" Dorian asks, and he's still got that funny little half smile. "Do you come here often?"

"A fair amount. I'm friends with the lady who owns the place, and she says there's always less fighting on nights I'm here." He gestures at himself, figuring the reason is self-explanatory.

"I'm guessing you don't have to actually break up a lot of fights," Dorian says. "Do you just walk up and loom over them?"

"Usually, yeah," Bull says. As an experiment, he leans in a little closer, and Dorian leans back. Not obviously and not immediately, but the next time he shifts his weight, he re-establishes the distance between them.

Bull has to admit he's disappointed, and a tiny bit frustrated. He's usually better at reading people than this, and he can't remember the last time he thought someone was interested when they really weren't.

"You here with someone?" Bull asks, as he tries to decide if he should be planning his exit strategy at this point.

"Just a friend of mine." Dorian tilts his head toward the high-top where Bull first saw him. Then he grins, and while it's not the come-fuck-me smile from earlier, it's endearing in its own, excited way. "He dragged me out to celebrate making partner."

"Congratulations," Bull says, hoping Dorian might be looking for a celebratory fuck, not just a celebratory drink.

Not that he's given any sign he's interested, and Bull reluctantly admits that Dorian could very well be one of those idiots who likes head games. Still, he's polite and clearly not drunk off his ass, and Bull doesn't have anyone else to talk to, so what the hell.

"It's a little early for the main crowd," Bull says, just to draw out the conversation. "You really want to celebrate, wait until two in the morning."

"I know," Dorian says. "But it gives me a better chance to watch people without getting stepped on, and a better chance of finding someone who's not too drunk to walk."

Bull can't resist asking, "Having any luck?"

If Dorian hears the subtext, he ignores it. "It's always a craps shoot," he says. "Sometimes you get lucky, and sometimes he's got six roommates in a studio apartment."

Bull laughs, even as he takes note of the pronoun. So he at least got that much right: Dorian's interested in guys.

"You laugh," Dorian says dryly, "but that happened to my friend there." He tilts his head toward the high-top again. "Walked in the door to find bunk beds on three walls, or so he says. I never did ask him what happened after, but given that it's Max, he probably just made them all take a number." Dorian's laughing as he says this, and it's a nice laugh, warm and low. "My life's nowhere near that interesting. The worst thing that's ever happened to me is the guy who spent two hours explaining that Sasquatch is real. It was even sort of funny for the first twenty minutes or so."

"Roach Central," Bull says, and waits for Dorian to give him a questioning look before he goes on. "That was my worst. Place was a wreck: trash everywhere, dirty plates higher than the sink, all that. I took two steps in the door, counted fifteen roaches, and went right back out."

Dorian makes an exaggerated gagging noise, but he looks amused. "I'll stick with Sasquatch, thanks. It sounds cleaner."

The conversation lags, and Bull tries to think of something to say to prolong it. He's still not sure if Dorian's actually interested, but Bull's enjoying his company, and that's a lot harder to find than someone willing to suck his dick.

"So you're friends with the club owner?" Dorian asks, and Bull can't help but think it's a good sign if Dorian's not edging away at the first opportunity.

"We were in the army together. I'm a cheap bastard, and she lets me drink for free so long as I loom by the bar," Bull says, then amends, "Well, she lets me drink for free so long as I keep my drinks to beer or soda."

This time, Dorian doesn't just smile but actually smiles _at him_ , and Bull has to stop himself from leaning into it, because it's not a flirtatious smile and he doesn't want to be No-Personal-Space Guy.

He knows he should leave it alone, but he can't resist adding, "I guess I probably shouldn't have admitted that, since I was going to offer to buy you a drink."

Dorian's smile fades, replaced by a quizzical frown. "Buy me a drink?"

"Yeah, you know," Bull says, a little puzzled himself. "I buy you a drink, we chat, see what happens." Why does he feel like this conversation is suddenly taking place in a different language? "Kind of like we're doing now, only with more alcohol."

It's obvious Dorian is having some kind of internal debate, but eventually he says, "Let's define our terms. When a man offers to buy me a drink and suggests we 'chat,' he usually means nothing of the sort. Well, mouths are involved, but not much talking. Is it safe for me to assume that your definition of chat is the one that doesn't involve talking?"

Bull stares at him, taken aback by the bluntness. Not that he objects, it's just that he's used to being the one laying it all out on the table like that--so to speak--and it takes him a second to recover. "Well, yeah, but I usually get slapped if I say, 'Let me buy you a drink and fuck you.'"

Dorian's glass is empty, but he tries to take another drink from it anyway, and Bull feels hope rekindle. This time when he leans forward, Dorian doesn't lean away.

His expression is still guarded, though. "I happened to see you talking to a rather attractive woman earlier."

_Ah ha!_ Bull thinks, confidence growing now that he knows the source of the strange disconnect between this conversation and Dorian's earlier smile. "Lace. She's a friend of mine, and another friend's girl." He looks around, spots Lace and Krem at a table in the corner, and his luck is in because they're currently busy trying to suck each other's tonsils out. "That one right there?"

Dorian glances over and nods. When he turns back, he turns all the way, no longer propped against the bar but now facing Bull directly. His eyes are half-lidded as he teases, "Your friend's girl is cute."

"Yeah," Bull agrees, and his mouth is inexplicably dry. "But she's not you." Which isn't actually a line in this case, and Bull decides he likes that Dorian accepts it as truth without trying to fish for additional compliments.

Somehow the distance between them has vanished, their knees almost touching, and the interest Bull thought he caught a glimpse of earlier is back in force and then some. "So," Dorian says, close enough he has to tip his head back to meet Bull's eye, "about that drink."

Bull manages not to pump his fist or do anything else stupid, but he doesn't bother trying to hold back a smile. There's some kind of subtle stripe in Dorian's shirt, a pattern Bull can't see but can feel when he touches it, and he runs his fingers along that invisible line, down Dorian's arm, listening to the way Dorian's breathing changes.

More than their knees are touching now, and Bull abandons Dorian's shirt to hook two fingers in the front pocket of his jeans. Dorian's hands are hot against his chest before he curls them into fists to pull himself closer. His lips are parted, and his eyes are darker than the dim lighting in the club can account for.

"Or we could skip the drink," Bull murmurs against his mouth.

"I'll try to contain my disappointment," Dorian says, and Bull, who wasn't planning on turning this into a public display, can't stop himself from leaning down that last inch to kiss him.

Dorian pushes up into it and groans, mouth opening eagerly, and the kiss gets out of control fast. Without thinking, Bull turns them so he's got Dorian pinned against the bar, both hands on his ass, sliding one knee between Dorian's thighs. One of Dorian's hands is still fisted in his t-shirt, while the other grips the back of Bull's neck and urges him on. Bull is hard and getting harder, and he's plenty close enough to know Dorian's not complaining.

"Get a room!" Cabot says, right by his ear, and Bull pulls back, breathless.

Rather than looking embarrassed, Dorian is laughing, deep in his chest, and Bull has to force himself to let go. If the sex is as good as that kiss implies it will be, Bull's not sure he's going to survive the experience, and also not sure he cares. The only thing he _is_ sure of is that he's not going to waste this opportunity on a quick blowjob, or on anything other than Dorian, somebody's bed, and five or six hours to explore as many possibilities as he can before his dick gives out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a tagging question for anyone who wants to voice an opinion, because tagging is my least favorite part of posting anything. I see there's a "lovers to friends" tag, but if you saw this on a story, would you assume that meant:
> 
> A. Sex first and relationship second, or  
> B. Were lovers, drifted apart, now just friends.
> 
> A question of deep importance, I know.


	2. And A Lot More Action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from the same song as the title for chapter one, because they went together so perfectly.
> 
> Everybody did note the _lack_ of a slow burn tag on this story, right? ;) Also, probably a good idea to glance at the tags again, as they have changed and may continue to change as I write.
> 
> And what Dorian does in this chapter is pretty risky (SSC? RACK? What's that?), so please don't try this at home.

The edge of the bar is digging into Dorian's back, but he's still tempted to try to grab Bull again, spectators be damned. As if he wasn’t turned on enough by that kiss, Bull is looking at him now like he's starring in some private sex show in Bull's head, and Dorian hopes fervently that he's going to get a chance to find out exactly what that entails.

"I need to let my friend know I'm leaving," he says, and if he's still a little breathless, Bull's clearly not doing much better.

"Yeah," Bull says, and he makes a motion with his hand like he was going to touch Dorian before he steps back, away from the bar. "I need to talk to Cabot for a second, then I'll be there." A vague wave of his hand indicates the smartass who interrupted the kiss.

Interrupted kiss or no, Dorian can't control his grin as he pushes his way back to Max through the crowd. Max takes one look at his face, and grins back. "You took my advice to heart, I see."

"It's not my heart I'm worried about right now."

"Good," Max says, sobering a little. "Try to keep it that way."

Which steals a little of Dorian's good mood, though not all. He has actually managed the occasional one-night stand in the past, and Bull seems like exactly the sort of person who would be on-board with that plan. In fact, Bull is about as different from Rilienus as it's possible to be.

Not that Dorian's thinking about Rilienus. No, of course not. Especially not right now. Along with all the other little boxes in his head is one marked Rilienus, and that one is chained, locked, and sealed in concrete. So no, Dorian isn't thinking about him at all. Not. At. All.

"Who's the lucky fellow?" Max asks. "Not another Rilienus, I hope." If he's aware he's being a dick, Dorian can't tell, but that's par for the course with Max.

Dorian looks back out over the club and finds Bull where he left him, talking to the bartender about something. "By the bar. Tall black guy."

Max looks Bull over with a frown, and Dorian can see him estimating income bracket and probable career choices. "I take it back. I don't think this is a good idea."

Dorian considers pointing out exactly how racist Max sounds, but he doesn't bother, because he knows where the real problem lies: not in the color of Bull's skin, but in the presumed color of his collar. Lawyers and doctors and accountants don't usually find themselves in situations that cost them an eye.

And this, too, is par for the course with Max. Dorian loves him to death, but he's a class-conscious prick at the best of times. Before Dorian's father kicked him out and he had to live on ramen and discount mac'n'cheese for two years, Dorian had been exactly the same way. Which actually doesn't make it any less obnoxious now.

"It's fine," Dorian says, rolling his eyes. "I'll text you when I'm headed home, so you can sleep better knowing I haven't been subjected to some middle-class horror, like a trip to Wal-Mart."

If Max hears the sarcasm, he ignores it. "If I don't hear from you by two, I'm coming to get you."

Dorian gives him a look. "The hell you are. If you don't hear from me by two, it means he was good enough for another round." He spots Bull coming back and goes to meet him, hoping to fend off Max's inclination to hand out suspicious looks.

Not well enough, apparently, because as soon as he's close enough, Bull asks, "Did I say something to piss off your friend?"

"Fuck him," Dorian says.

Bull grins, that same wicked smile Dorian first noticed, the one that now makes Dorian flash back to a few minutes ago, the bar digging into his back and Bull grinding up against him. His heart starts to beat faster, and when Bull says, "He's not who I'm hoping to fuck," Dorian shifts, his pants once again too tight.

"Well, then," Dorian says, and smirks. "Your place or mine?"

"Mine," Bull says. "If you're okay with that."

Reminded of their earlier conversation, Dorian raises an eyebrow in exaggerated suspicion and asks, "Do you have roommates?"

"Nope, just me."

"What about roaches?"

Bull's lips twitch. "Nope, just me. And I promise not to talk about Sasquatch."

Dorian leans in, just close enough to make Bull's eye darken, before he turns and walks away, calling over his shoulder, "Then your place is fine."

Outside the club, Dorian sucks in a deep breath and tries to get a little blood back to his brain. While he's doing that, he pulls out his phone and turns off any app that would let someone track him, just in case Max gets any ideas about following through on his threats.

"You ready?" Bull asks from behind him, and Dorian puts his phone away.

He considers a number of responses, then figures they've been working off ridiculous lines all night, and goes with, "Baby, I was born ready."

"Then let's go," Bull says, and his voice makes Dorian shiver.

The drive to Bull's place isn't long, but Dorian uses the few minutes alone in his car to give himself a stern lecture. _Fun,_ he thinks, over and over. _We are going to have fun, and then I'm going to go home, and that will be the end of it. Fun. The word of the day is fun._

Bull lives in a quiet neighborhood, at the end of a cul-de-sac where every light is already out for the night. On a Friday, no less. _Ah, suburbia,_ Dorian thinks as he parks at the curb in front of a single story rambler on a small lot.

In the five or so seconds before it begins to look weird, him sitting in the car while Bull is already walking toward the front door, Dorian takes a deep breath. Rilienus and Max get stuffed back in their respective boxes, and Dorian concentrates on Bull's kiss at the club: the bar against his back, Bull's leg between his, and Bull's hands on his ass holding him tightly. He keeps that thought firmly in the front of his mind as he gets out of the car and crosses the yard so that by the time he's standing in the front hallway, he's already starting to get hard.

Bull chucks his keys onto a side table and asks, "You want anything to drink? I've mostly got sports drinks, but there's probably a beer or two somewhere in the back of the fridge."

"If we'd wanted to drink, we could have stayed at the bar," Dorian says dryly.

Bull smiles and moves toward him, his hands coming to rest on Dorian's hips, pulling him slowly closer. His eye is locked on Dorian's face, and he seems to be waiting for some kind of protest, as if protesting isn't the last thing on Dorian's mind. Instead, he steps forward to meet Bull, pressing their bodies together. The difference in their heights means they can't actually kiss like this, but the feel of Bull's cock pressing against his stomach is a damn fine distraction from that disappointment.

"Are we doing this here?" Dorian asks against Bull's throat. "Because I certainly don't mind, but I admit I was hoping for a bed."

He can't stop a gasp when Bull picks him up bodily, hands under his ass, and presses him to the wall. Since this also puts their mouths at the right height, Dorian doesn't hesitate to take advantage, wrapping his legs around Bull's waist and his arms around Bull's neck to resume their interrupted kiss from the club. This is about a hundred times better, though, because now he can rub his groin against Bull's without worrying about the spectacle he's making.

Bull breaks the kiss and tries to put him down, but Dorian clings for a second longer, sucking on the skin beneath Bull's ear to draw a small noise from his throat before setting his feet on the floor.

Back on his feet but not entirely steady, he follows Bull down a short hallway into a bedroom. The main feature is a large four-poster bed that sits against the wall opposite the door, the dark wood posts as thick as Dorian's leg. It's kind of an intimidating piece of furniture, even if it is the whole reason they're here, and Dorian makes the first joke that comes to mind. "That's quite something. I have to admit, it does look like it's supposed to have someone tied to it."

The pause that follows is just half a second too long, and Dorian turns to raise an eyebrow at Bull. "Or was that part of the plan for tonight?"

Bull shrugs one shoulder. "Not if you don't want it to be."

Dorian's mouth goes dry. "What...ahhh...what's involved in that, anyway?"

This gets him a long look before Bull shrugs again and moves to open the chest at the foot of the bed. A little nervously, Dorian follows him to peer down into the depths as the smell of leather wafts up to his nose.

Fucking hell, he doesn't even know what some of this is _for_. He picks up a neatly tied coil of rope, mostly to have something to do with his hands, and twists it gently around as his eyes move over the contents of what he can't help but think of as Bull's toy box. It's all carefully organized rather than thrown in every which way, compartments for the smaller toys and the larger ones laid out neatly. Some of it he recognizes, and he begins to separate everything mentally.

Closest to him are sets of leather cuffs in various sizes, each with its own lock hanging open from its closure, with carabiners piled nearby. Beside the cuffs are several candles, a box of matches lined up precisely with the side of the chest. There are also, of course, the requisite vibrators, though more than Dorian's used to seeing in one place, unless that place is a store that sells them.

The butt plugs and dildos are likewise not terribly surprising in and of themselves, though again, there's quite a variety of sizes and materials, from smaller than his index finger to large enough to make his ass clench unpleasantly, made of silicone and glass and stainless steel and even wood. There are at least three different kinds of lube, and several boxes of condoms, and an entire collection of nipple clamps. Floggers, and cock rings, and something Dorian thinks may be a cat o'nine tails, though he's never actually seen one.

It's not the only thing he's never seen before, though some of it he can guess at. There's a stainless steel comma that's probably another dildo but that looks like something the Grammar Police might employ against serial offenders; it's as long as his forearm with a knob on each end of its tapered curve, and it looks heavy as hell. Spreader bars of various lengths lie against the long side of the chest, sharing space with an orderly stack of blindfolds and a handful of gags.

Then there are the things he's never seen and would never have guessed existed. Like the metal band he thinks is another cock ring, until he looks closer and realizes it has _spikes_ around the inside of it, and he has to control an impulse to cover his groin protectively. And speaking of spikes, there's something that looks like it belongs in a pastry kitchen, a little rotary wheel on a handle, needle-sharp spokes radiating out from the center.

And why on earth would anyone need a rheostat in their collection of sex toys?

It takes him a minute to gather his thoughts and stop staring into the chest as if the contents are going to attack him. "No handcuffs?" he asks, trying for nonchalance and mostly succeeding. He hopes. It's hard to be nonchalant with the smell of leather in his nose, and the rope in his hands, and that lethal-looking ring staring up at him from its compartment.

"What, like police-issue? Nah, too dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"If you pull too hard, or at the wrong angle, you can do some serious nerve damage. I'd rather you can pull as hard as you want, and not have to worry about it." Bull delivers this in a casual tone, as if he's explaining why Dorian shouldn't put regular gasoline in a diesel engine, but the images it conjures have Dorian struggling to take a normal breath.

"We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with," Bull says. "Really. I'm just showing you because you asked."

"So it's not a fetish, then."

Bull looks like he's laughing at some private joke. "About the only fetish I have is a people fetish. I like sex, any flavor."

Dorian hesitates, not sure this is really his game. He's never done anything kinkier than a little light spanking, and everything he sees right now is way beyond that. The easy way Bull talks about handcuffs is a huge red flag, warning Dorian that he's in over his head.

In memory, Max looks disapproving, and Dorian comes to a decision. "Let's give it a try," he says. "Do whatever you want, and I'll say stop if I don't like it."

"Red light," Bull says.

"What?"

"Red light. Not stop. Sometimes people like to get into it, be able to yell stop when they don't really mean it. Say red light if you actually want me to stop."

Dorian's resolve wavers, but Max's face firms it up again. He's not going to chicken out now. Still... "Let's stick with stop," he says. "I don't say it unless I mean it."

Bull shrugs easily. "Your call." Something in his posture shifts, hard to say exactly what, but suddenly Dorian's hindbrain is shouting, "Danger, danger, danger, Will Robinson!" His heart begins to beat faster, mostly arousal but with a little bit of fear mixed in. To his surprise, the combination has him reaching for Bull, desperate for touch.

His hand touches Bull's shirt, only to be grabbed and yanked high enough into the air that he has to come up onto his toes. It doesn't hurt: the stretch in his back and side actually feels pretty good, and Bull's grip on his wrist feels even better. Then Bull grabs his other hand and pins both in one of his own much-larger hands, and Dorian can't control the gasp that slips out.

Bull's eye is fixed on his face, gauging his reaction, watching him with unnerving intensity. "I'm going to let go of you," Bull says, and his already low voice has gone even lower, sending shivers through Dorian's body. "You can put your arms down, but otherwise, hold completely still."

He doesn't wait for any sort of acknowledgment, just lets go of Dorian's wrists slowly, peeling his fingers away one by one without breaking eye contact. Dorian's skin burns where his fingers were, and he rubs absently at one wrist without thinking.

"I told you to hold still," Bull says, and Dorian blinks at him. Bull looks back steadily.

 _You wanted to play this game,_ Dorian reminds himself. He drops his hands to his sides and nods.

Bull nods back, approvingly, and Dorian's a little disturbed by the way that approval feeds the desire inside him. Approval isn't something he's gotten a lot of in his life.

 _Not thinking about that right now, thank you._ It isn't hard to ignore his thoughts with Bull trailing gentle fingers over his face, caressing his cheeks, his nose, his lips. Those hands move backward to cup his head, holding him in place while Bull kisses him.

His tongue touches Dorian's lips, and for the first time in years, Dorian doesn't know what to do. He was told to hold still, but it feels like a rejection to stand there with his lips closed while Bull licks at the corners of his mouth. Then Bull's tongue presses harder, forcing its way between his lips, and Dorian sucks in a breath, surprised at the heat that burns through him as Bull pushes his way in. Kissing is something Dorian has plenty of experience with, and he hasn't been this overwhelmed by something so simple in years.

He's kissed more than his share of men, and the occasional woman back when he was still trying to pretend he wasn't gay, and he has to rate Bull in the top five. There's no awkward fumbling to line up their mouths, no hesitation but also no haste. Bull kisses as if he has all the time in the world and fully intends to spend that time tasting Dorian's mouth.

Bull leans back, and Dorian opens his eyes to find Bull watching him once again, smiling and intent. Bull's fingers drift down, along his neck and around his collarbones until they reach his shirt and begin to slip open the buttons one at a time. The backs of Bull's fingers brush Dorian's chest as he works, small touches that have to be deliberate because Dorian knows from experience that unbuttoning someone else's shirt doesn't usually require skin contact.

Those touches are a constant as Bull undressed him. The shirt first, Bull's knuckles brushing against his throat, down his chest, across his stomach, catching very slightly in the hair that begins just under Dorian's navel. To his disappointment, Bull doesn't continue downward from there. Instead, his knuckles backtrack up to Dorian's shoulders so he can slide off the shirt, his fingers following it down, tracing Dorian's arms and the bones in his hands until he reaches the tips of Dorian's fingers.

Bull steps back then and just stands there looking at him, gaze lingering on the gold rings in Dorian's nipples like he's debating what to do with them. Dorian realizes he's staring with his own eyes stretched wide, and he blinks, trying not to look like this is the first time he's had sex. While he has no desire to feign boredom, there's interested, and then there's _too_ interested.

He gets a second to collect himself when Bull turns away, only to find himself staring again as Bull lifts two pairs of cuffs out of the box and tosses them onto the bed. Dorian swallows hard.

Bull goes to his knees, and Dorian has high hopes that they'll be moving on to something a little more intimate, but instead, Bull takes one of Dorian's hands in both of his own, turning it palm up and spreading the fingers wide. One thumb smoothing over Dorian's palm, the other resting against the pulse in his wrist, Bull lowers his head and kisses Dorian's fingers one by one. He sucks each slowly into his mouth, tongue stroking on the way in and teeth scraping on the way out.

His eye still fixed on Dorian's, he moves up, pressing a lingering kiss to the center of Dorian's palm, to the inside of his wrist, to the crook of his elbow, where he pauses again to taste the skin. Dorian is shaking already, amazed at his own reaction. This slow pace should be maddening, and it is, but in the very best possible way. His only complaint now is that his pants are so tight they're beginning to hurt.

Straightening a little, Bull moves from elbow to nipple, flicking the ring with his tongue a few times before moving over to do the same thing to the other. Dorian's throat closes for a second, and he fights the urge to grab Bull's head and hold it against his chest. When Bull moves on, his tongue touching the inside of Dorian's other elbow, it's almost a relief. It feels good, but it takes the intensity down a notch, to the point where Dorian can breathe.

The intensity ratchets right back up as Bull lifts Dorian's hand to give those fingers the same attention he gave the ones on the other side, licking and sucking without breaking eye contact. _This is what I'm going to do to your cock,_ that look promises, and Dorian has to close his mouth so he can swallow against the dryness in his throat. He can't look away, riveted by the sight of his fingers sliding between Bull's lips until Bull lets go of his hand at last and Dorian blinks for the first time in almost a minute.

Hands on Dorian's hips, Bull guides him around and backward a few careful steps until suddenly the bed is there. It catches Dorian by surprise, but it's pretty much impossible to fall with Bull holding him, and even as a tiny part of Dorian's brain (the part that sounds remarkably like Max) is wringing its hands and muttering, _He's bigger than you, stronger than you, he could **kill you** without breaking a sweat_ , most of his brain is marveling at how perfectly controlled that strength is. Bull lifts him almost bodily onto the bed, but it doesn't even occur to Dorian to worry about being dropped, nor does he feel like a sack of potatoes flung onto a kitchen counter. Just...one second he's standing, and the next he's flat on his back on the bed, with no effort on his own part.

He's beginning to understand why people get into this, into letting other people tie them up and pin them down.

Not that Bull gives him a lot of time to think about any of it. Knee on the edge of the bed, Bull raises Dorian's arms over his head one at a time. Only, he doesn't just grab a wrist and pull it upward; instead, he runs his hand from Dorian's waist up over his ribs--thumb brushing across the nipple on the way by--up to Dorian' armpit and along his arm, and by the time Bull's hand gets to Dorian's wrist, somehow Dorian's arm is exactly where it needs to be. The cuff is slightly cooler than his skin, the leather a tiny bit rough against the inside of his wrist as Bull locks it in place.

Dorian is so absorbed in the way the first cuff feels that he doesn't pay much attention to Bull locking the other one in place until it suddenly clicks over in his head that he's about to be trapped. That realization triggers another burst of adrenaline, but at this point, the line between fear and excitement is so blurred that all he can do is watch breathlessly as Bull attaches the cuffs to opposite bed posts.

That done, Bull's hands run down his legs with the same slow deliberation as they went up his sides, pushing Dorian's jeans down, his thumbs just grazing the insides of Dorian's thighs. When Dorian lifts his hips to try to help, Bull says, "No," very quietly, and Dorian forces himself to relax and lie passively while Bull finishes stripping him.

When Dorian is completely naked, Bull straddles him, one knee on either side of his hips, denim-clad ass just brushing against Dorian's cock. He should feel embarrassed, or at least awkward, lying here completely naked while Bull is still almost completely dressed. Maybe he'll be embarrassed later, when Bull's weight isn't pinning him to the bed, and Bull's mouth isn't coming down toward his far too slowly.

Just short of kissing him, Bull pauses and murmurs, "You can move now, if you want."

In any other situation, Dorian would probably laugh at the absurdity of being given permission to move when his hands are locked to a bed and there's at least two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle sitting on his hips. Here and now, the words pull a groan out of him, and he pushes up to close the distance between their mouths.

Despite Dorian's efforts, Bull keeps the kiss gentle, leaning away to control the intensity and only leaning forward again when Dorian collapses back in frustration. After two iterations of this dance, Dorian gives up and waits for Bull's mouth to touch his. Almost as soon as Dorian stops trying to take control, Bull presses in harder, sucking on Dorian's tongue and lower lip before thrusting his own tongue into Dorian's mouth. Dorian tries without success to rock his hips against Bull's, and then forgets what he was doing when Bull twists one of his nipples.

He's shaking, almost every breath a groan, when suddenly Bull's gone. Dorian has to blink a few times to clear his vision, but eventually he locates Bull standing by the bed, just looking at him again, and Dorian has to close his eyes before he embarrasses himself and comes right here, without a hand on him. That look is so intent, as if Dorian is a puzzle that Bull is enjoying teasing apart, and it's so different from Rilienus that Dorian doesn't even know why that name is once again fluttering at the edge of his thoughts.

He opens his eyes when something lands on the bedside table, and sees a bottle of lube and at least half a dozen condoms. "You're optimistic," he says, and it's not too breathless. He thinks.

"I like to be prepared," Bull says. "We probably won't need all of them."

He doesn't place any special emphasis on the word "probably," but Dorian's brain zeroes in on it anyway. They _probably_ won't need six--no, make that seven--condoms? Exactly how long does Bull plan to keep him locked to this bed?

Dorian's not sure which possibility turns him on more: that Bull will use all those condoms in the next couple hours, or that Dorian will still be locked to this bed tomorrow. A part of him is embarrassed that he finds either option arousing, and he retains just enough higher reasoning to know that the reality would be quite painful, but the fantasy makes his skin tingle. Both fantasies. At the same time, despite the fact that they're pretty much mutually exclusive.

As an added bonus, Rilienus has once more been banished to his box in the back of Dorian's head.

Bull strips off his own t-shirt, and Dorian's eyes follow the fabric up as it reveals his stomach and then his chest. For the first time, he regrets letting Bull tie him to the bed, because what he really wants is touch all that newly revealed skin, run his mouth and fingers over every inch of it until Bull is as hard and desperate as Dorian is right now. He clenches his hands and pulls against the cuffs, feeling the edges of the leather scrape against the base of his thumbs.

"Hey," Bull says quietly, and Dorian's eyes snap up to his. "You okay?"

"Is there a reason I wouldn't be?" Dorian asks, trying for flippant and only sort of succeeding.

Bull smiles. "Just checking. You've never done this before, sometimes people forget there's a safeword."

"I haven't forgotten," Dorian breathes, his gaze traveling back over Bull's body. "Trust me, if I wanted to use it, I would have."

"Good," Bull murmurs, and then he's _right there_ , bending over Dorian with a hand planted on either side of his head, taking up all the space and all the available air, and Dorian tries again to stretch up and kiss him.

Once again, Bull leans away, keeping the kiss light. This time, Dorian gives up after one attempt, remembering the way Bull kissed him last time when he stopped fighting and just waited for it.

At first, Dorian thinks his plan may have backfired: Bull straightens up and puts a hand to the small of his back, stretching as if it pains him. Before Dorian can ask, Bull is crawling over him to stretch out on his side, head propped on one hand and the other resting on Dorian's bare thigh. "This is nice," he says quietly, and Dorian thinks nice is entirely too mild a word.

Then Bull goes on, and Dorian's brain shorts out. "I could keep you like this all night, if I wanted to. Suck you until you come," his mouth moves to suck hard on one of Dorian's nipples, then lingers to whisper the rest of it into Dorian's skin, "then fuck you until you come again," his hand slides down between Dorian's thighs, one finger pressing against his asshole without actually penetrating, "than stroke you until you come a third time." His hand moves to Dorian's cock, dry but stroking lightly enough that it still feels good.

Any flippant answer Dorian might have been able to come up with is gone for good when Bull slides his hand under Dorian's head, fist closing in his hair. Bull shifts again, bringing his mouth right against Dorian's ear. "You didn't think all those condoms were for me, did you?"

Dorian whimpers, driving his cock up into Bull's fist, and it almost hurts. "Gently," Bull says. "We'll get there." He reaches across Dorian for the lube, flipping the bottle open one-handed and somehow managing to squeeze some into the same hand without spilling it everywhere. Dorian would be more impressed by that trick if Bull's hand wasn't already back on his cock, gripping tightly and absorbing all his attention.

Bull's mouth comes down again, the hand in Dorian's hair holding him in place as Bull kisses him gently. In contrast to that gentleness, his hand on Dorian's cock moves fast and hard, twisting and stroking in a way Dorian knows he won't withstand for long.

He turns his head away from Bull and says between gasps, "I'm going to come if you keep that up."

"Good," Bull says in his ear, and Dorian can hear his smile. His strokes stop and a fingernail runs lightly up the length of Dorian's cock to the tip, where it presses against the slit just the right side of painful before he starts to stroke again. "That'll be one down, two to go."

The words shoot straight to Dorian's cock, and when Bull tightens the hand in his hair and bites one of his nipples, Dorian gasps and comes hard, his whole body electrified as Bull squeezes his dick and tugs on the ring between his teeth.

Eventually he stops shuddering and opens his eyes, aware of an ache in his wrists where he pulled against the cuffs. Bull's hand is still in his hair, but loosely now, and Bull's face is almost close enough to kiss. Dorian can't get enough control over his body to raise his head, and the hand in his hair doesn't make it any easier.

"Kiss me," he demands.

Bull smiles and does as ordered, gentle kisses across Dorian's mouth and cheeks and throat. Dorian would complain that he was hoping for a slightly more fiery kiss, except that it does feel good, Bull's stubble scraping against his skin as his lips and tongue work their way over him.

They stay that way a while, so long that Dorian recovers enough to feel guilty, but he can't exactly return the favor from his current position. Bull's cock is hard against his thigh even through a layer of denim, and Dorian shifts his leg deliberately to rub it.

"Don't make me tie your ankles, too," Bull murmurs, sounding amused.

"You said I could move if I wanted," Dorian points out evenly, despite the way his chest constricted at the words as another wave of fear and desire ran through him.

"True," Bull says, and rolls away.

"That's cheating," Dorian calls after him, but Bull only laughs.

He's not gone very long, and since he comes back with a towel, Dorian decides to forgive him. Especially when he lays back down on the bed after he's done cleaning Dorian off, even if he is still wearing his jeans. His shoes and socks have done a disappearing act, but he doesn't show any sign that he's planning on taking off anything else any time soon, and Dorian feels that's something they need to be working on about now.

Bull rests his head on Dorian's chest, right over his heart, a solid weight that makes it just a little bit hard to breathe. One hand wanders up and down Dorian's body; it feels good, though not exactly arousing. Soothing. That's the word: it's soothing. Bull's other arm is trapped along the length of Dorian's side, but his knuckles move in slow circles over the small area of skin they can reach.

"Are you...all right?" Dorian asks awkwardly, after a couple minutes of this. It's the closest he can get to asking, "Don't you want something out of this?"

"I'm good." Bull rubs his cheek against Dorian's chest, stubble catching in the curls there. "Definitely good."

"You are that," Dorian says, and Bull scrapes his fingernails lightly across Dorian's ribs, making him writhe.

The touches grow firmer, less idle petting and more caressing, and Dorian can feel his body responding. Slowly, but his cock is hardening, his skin starting to flush again, and when Bull tugs lightly at one of his nipple rings, Dorian gasps.

The condom is almost a relief, dulling the sensation of Bull's fingers on his over-sensitive cock, except that Bull's mouth follows it right down, tongue sliding along the underside and pressing tightly against him. Dorian's hands clench into fists again, and...

On the floor, his phone begins to ring.

"Ignore it," Dorian gasps out, when Bull lifts his head to locate the source of the noise. Obligingly, Bull lowers his mouth back to Dorian's cock, sliding all the way down to the base in a move that has Dorian's hips lifting off the bed. He's distantly aware that the phone has stopped, but he really doesn't care, so long as Bull keeps doing what he's doing.

The phone rings again.

"Ignore it," Dorian repeats, though Bull hasn't moved this time. Dorian manages to tune it out until it stops, focusing on Bull's mouth because Bull's mouth is fucking _amazing_ , and...

The phone rings again.

"Somebody really wants to talk to you," Bull says, his mouth a few inches above Dorian's cock.

"I really don't care," Dorian says. He arches up, trying to reclaim Bull's mouth, and makes a frustrated noise when Bull leans away. "Whatever it is, it's not important." It's the default ringtone, which means it's not Max or anyone he knows, so whoever it is can fuck right off.

The phone stops ringing, and Bull wraps his hand around Dorian's cock, stroking lightly while he watches Dorian's face. That look is too intense, and Dorian has to close his eyes. No one has focused on him like that, looked at him like no one else existed, since...

The phone rings again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's pretty unlikely that I'll explore the entire contents of Bull's toy box in this story, but yes, it will be back, just not in the next couple chapters. For those who don't know but want to, have some links to what I was trying to describe **_(all links very much NSFW)_** :  
>    
> [The Attack Comma](http://www.babeland.com/n-joy-pure-wand/d/2732) (my name for it, because it amuses me to call it that)
> 
> The [spiked ring](http://www.extremerestraints.com/cock-rings_34/kalis-teeth-chastity-device-4-rows-15-inch_2811.html), and credit to [this story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3474146) (which you should read if you haven't) for introducing me to it.
> 
> The spiked wheel (aka a Wartenberg Wheel) is [this](http://www.extremerestraints.com/medical-fetish_155/wartenburg-wheel-with-sheath_119.html), though it could also be [this](http://www.extremerestraints.com/medical-instruments_214/the-triple-pleasure-pinwheel_3275.html).
> 
>  
> 
> Also, if you enjoyed this chapter, you should thank my wife for her willingness to play body double while I stood there and said things like, "No, no, put your hands over there. Hmmmm, that won't work. Okay, try this. Where does your other arm have to be? Nope, that won't work either." It's not nearly as much fun as it sounds (especially not for her), but sometimes it's hard to describe things if I can't see them....


	3. Good Enough for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I try hard to make it  
> I just wanna make you proud  
> I'm never gonna be good enough for you  
> I can't stand another fight  
> And nothing's alright
> 
> 'Cause we lost it all  
> Nothing lasts forever  
> I'm sorry  
> I can't be perfect  
> Now it's just too late and  
> We can't go back  
> I'm sorry  
> I can't be perfect
> 
> Simple Plan, "Perfect"
> 
> Not where you thought that chapter title was going, was it? :)

As the phone keeps ringing, Bull suppresses a stab of annoyance, mainly because it's clear Dorian is just as annoyed as he is. Still, couldn't the guy have turned the fucking thing off, or at least set it to vibrate? It doesn't matter how hot Dorian is: there's no way Bull is going to be able to concentrate with something beeping at him every five seconds.

The phone stops yet again, but this time, Bull waits, and sure enough, it starts right back up. "Oh for fuck's sake," he mutters, and lets go of Dorian.

Dorian whines in protest, then again as Bull begins to dig through the pile of clothes for the phone. It stops before he finds it, and begins ringing again just as he pulls it out of Dorian's pocket.

As he crosses the room back to Dorian, he taps the screen to accept the call. Dorian's eyes widen in anger and alarm, then narrow when Bull simply reaches out to hold the phone to his ear for him.

"What?" Dorian barks into it, so like Bull's first drill instructor that he's almost tempted to salute. His cock is definitely standing at attention, despite the interruption.

"What do you want?" Dorian demands of whoever's on the other end of the phone. "I'm a little tied up at the moment, so spit it out." He quirks an eyebrow at Bull, who grins in appreciation of the pun and rewards him by stroking one finger gently up the inside of Dorian's thigh.

At first, Bull thinks Dorian's gasp is because of that touch, but when he looks up, Dorian's face has turned grey. It's been a while since Bull's seen someone pass out while lying down, but Dorian looks like he's about to give it a try.

"What?" Dorian asks again, and Bull freezes. Dorian's tone has turned from demanding to plaintive, someone asking for information to be repeated not because he didn't hear right the first time, but because he's hoping he didn't.

Bull grabs for the key one-handed, keeping the phone at Dorian's ear while he fumbles with the locks. It's more than a little awkward as he tries to juggle phone and keys without elbowing Dorian in the head, in a way that would be funny in other circumstances. Bull isn't laughing, and neither is Dorian.

As soon as his left hand is free, Dorian takes the phone to hold it himself. He makes a series of acknowledging noises into the phone, his face set and his mouth drawn so tight his lips are almost invisible. "I'm about an hour away," Dorian says, and his tone has regained some of its earlier snap. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

He ends the call without saying goodbye, then closes his eyes and rests the phone against his forehead while Bull finishes unlocking his other hand. "I'm sorry," he says.

Dorian's wrist is still wrapped in the cuff, but it is unlocked, so Bull does what he's been wanting to do since he realized something was actually wrong: he cups Dorian's cheek in one hand and strokes his thumb across the skin below his eye.

For half a second, he thinks Dorian's going to fall completely apart: he draws a quick hard breath in through his nose, and tears form at the corners of his eyes. Then the masks come back and Dorian pulls away, reaching over to free himself from the second cuff.

"I need to go," he says. "Something's come up."

"I kind of figured that," Bull says. "Anything I can do?"

"Not really," Dorian says. He’s staring at the phone, looking a little dazed. "My father just died."

Bull jerks in surprise. "Oh fuck, man, I’m sorry to hear that." When Dorian doesn’t respond and doesn’t move, Bull asks cautiously, "Was he sick?"

"I don’t know," Dorian says, and his flat tone is beginning to make Bull nervous. "I haven't spoken to him in ten years."

"Ah," Bull says, because he's not sure what else he _can_ say.

"He doesn't approve of my 'lifestyle choices,'" Dorian says. His voice is still flat, with only the barest inflection on the last two words. Then he grimaces. " _Didn't_ approve. He _didn't_ approve of my lifestyle choices. And my mother still doesn't, as she managed to make painfully clear just now."

"Fuck," Bull says, filling in all the things Dorian's left unsaid.

"Yeah," Dorian says, then flinches away when Bull touches his face again. "Don't. I'm sorry, but don't. Not right now." He sucks in a deep breath, and puts on a ghastly fake smile. "I've been summoned to attend upon my mother, and that's always so trying."

And he needs to be in control. That's something Bull understands and respects, so instead of saying any of the hundred things running through his head, he sticks with practicalities. "Do you want a shower before you go?"

Dorian looks down at himself, and laughs a little. He doesn't sound amused. "If you don't mind."

Bull finds him a clean towel and points him toward the bathroom, then makes some coffee and a sandwich while he waits. With only the light over the stove on, the kitchen is mostly in shadow, but the darkness makes it a little easier to think, to avoid being distracted by the dishes that need to be put away and the trash that needs to be taken out. He thinks a lot about Dorian's face, and Dorian whispering, "Don't."

When he hears the shower turn off, Bull wanders back into the bedroom just as the bathroom door opens in a cloud of steam. Somehow, Dorian wrapped in a towel with his hair damp and tousled is more intimate than Dorian stretched out naked on the bed, and Bull has to clear his throat a little awkwardly.

"How do you like your coffee?" Bull asks, and Dorian stares at him for a second. "Cream, sugar, disgusting chemicals that pretend to be sugar...?"

Dorian laughs for real this time. "Black's fine. The stronger the better."

If they were an hour back in time, Bull might crack a joke about Dorian liking his coffee the way he likes his men, but somehow, now doesn't seem like the right time. Instead, he asks, "Are you allergic to peanut butter? It's about all I've got in the house that's portable."

"Not allergic, no," Dorian says, tossing the towel over the bathroom door. "But don't worry about it, I'm not really hungry. I appreciate the thought, though."

Watching Dorian get dressed is like watching him put on armor: with every piece of clothing, his stance and his face change until he's again the cocky son of a bitch Bull remembers from the club. His confidence is back, filling the space around him until he seems taller and broader than he really is.

The difference is, Bull now knows it's a mask, and he can see the gaps where it doesn't quite fit. That he couldn't see them earlier is a testament to Dorian's skill, but they're definitely there, now Bull knows where to look.

He's never liked seeing people in pain, and the urge to soothe is nearly overwhelming, but he also understands Dorian's need to prepare himself for what he clearly expects to be an ordeal. Rather than make both of them uncomfortable, Bull retreats to the kitchen to make more sandwiches and coffee.

At the sound of Dorian's footsteps, Bull looks up, coffee mug in hand. Dorian pauses in the kitchen doorway and looks back at him, all swagger and indifference now.

"I know you're not hungry," Bull says, holding out one of the sandwiches, "but you really should eat something."

The confident mask doesn't slip, but when Dorian reaches for the sandwich, his hands are shaking, badly. So badly that he almost misses his mouth on the first bite, and the thought of him behind the wheel of a car in his current state is pretty scary.

"I can drive you," Bull says, then realizes he doesn't actually know where Dorian is headed. It can't be too far, though, if Dorian said he would be there in an hour, and then felt he had the time to stop for a shower.

"I'm fine," Dorian says, and bites into the sandwich like it's personally offended him.

Bull doesn't say anything directly, just pours a cup of coffee and slides it down the counter. When Dorian picks it up, he stares down at the liquid for a long time without drinking, his teeth grinding against each other rather than chewing. His hands are still shaking, and Bull's a little surprised he hasn't poured the coffee all over himself.

"I don't mind," Bull says, and Dorian's nod is more of a head jerk.

"Thank you."

They don't say anything else as Dorian finishes his sandwich and coffee. Bull fills two travel mugs and stuffs the rest of the sandwiches into a plastic bag, because he needs to move and at least this is useful fidgeting.

The silence persists through the car ride, broken only by the distant female voice of Bull's cell phone telling him where and when to turn. Dorian holds his travel mug between his knees, hands curled around it as if he's shielding it from something. His back is perfectly straight, his shoulders relaxed, but he still looks to Bull like he's bent over in pain.

At this hour, the hospital's parking lot is mostly empty; only people with real emergencies are here now. Bull pulls up under the awning in front of the main doors, setting the parking brake with a swift jerk. Beside him, Dorian takes a deep, deep breath that seems to go on for hours.

"Thank you," he says again, very quietly.

When he tries to hand over the travel mug, Bull shakes his head. "Hang on to it. Bring it back to me sometime."

Dorian's mouth bends in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and he gets out of the car. Standing on the curb, he pauses for a second, one hand on the car door and the other holding the top of the travel mug between his fingertips. Silhouetted against the fluorescent lights, he looks like something out of an old noir film, if characters in old noir films drank their coffee from plastic travel mugs stamped with a gym logo.

That brief pause doesn't end, stretching longer and longer, Dorian's body loose but somehow still frozen. Without quite understanding why, Bull opens his own door and gets out, circling the car so he can see Dorian's face. His masks have slipped again, and the pain is so obvious that Bull tugs him forward into a hug that he accepts only reluctantly.

Reluctantly at first, anyway; the longer Bull holds him, the more he melts into it, closing the distance between them an inch at a time. Chest first, then stomach, then hips, then legs, until he's all but plastered himself to Bull, his arms tight around Bull's waist and his face burrowed into Bull's shoulder, the travel mug leaving a permanent dent in Bull's spine.

Bull's seen his share of screwed up family dynamics, but it cuts especially deep tonight. How bad is it, if a virtual stranger provides Dorian more comfort than the people waiting for him inside?

"I can come in with you," Bull says, and he's as surprised by the words as Dorian.

Dorian shakes his head against Bull's chest without moving away. "I'll be all right," he says.

"Well, it's not like I can leave anyway," Bull says, though of course that's patently untrue. "I mean, your car's still back at my place."

"Someone here will give me a ride," Dorian says, and Bull tries to imagine how he would feel if he had to ask a favor of anyone he dislikes as much as Dorian clearly dislikes his family.

From the direction of the doors, a woman says, "Dorian?" in a clipped voice, and every muscle in Dorian's body turns to iron.

He steps back quickly, and Bull lets him go, though he really wants to hold on more tightly than ever. All of Dorian's masks are firmly in place, and there's a chill to him that Bull hasn't seen before.

"Mother," he says, in the sort of formally polite tone reserved for strangers met at social functions no one wanted to attend in the first place. Hell, it's more distant than the tone he used on Bull, even at the beginning of the conversation when Dorian thought they were only talking, not flirting.

The whole world, or at least the tiny space of it around the three of them, freezes for a second, and Bull remembers that this is the first time Dorian's seen his mother in ten years. Or maybe not? Just because he hadn't talked to his father didn't mean his mother got the same treatment.

But watching the two of them now, Bull's pretty sure she did.

"Come along, then," she says, and turns away, only to turn back and look Bull over. Bull feels like he's been stabbed with an icicle. "Is your friend staying?"

Bull looks at Dorian, and everything freezes again. It's like being back in Afghanistan: a tenth of a second to make the right decision, without enough information, without time to get more, and with deadly consequences if he doesn't get it right. That Dorian's relationship with his mother makes Bull think of a war zone probably says a lot. Bull tries not to think about that, or about the fact that the last time he had to make one of these snap decisions, he lost an eye.

On the other hand, he might have lost an eye, but none of his soldiers died. It's a fair trade.

Dorian is opening his mouth to answer his mother's question, his lips already forming, "No," or maybe, "He's not my boyfriend," and Bull talks over him quickly. "I just need to park the car. I'll be right back."

The masks slip again, revealing pain and confusion and just a little bit of relief, before Dorian gets control of himself again. Dorian's mother is looking at Bull, one artfully plucked eyebrow raised in disdainful surprise, and by the time she looks back at her son, his face is cold and distant again.

"I'll be right back," Bull repeats, and gets in his car.

He parks in the first spot he sees, not caring if he does a shitty job of it, and hurries back to the front entrance. For a second, he doesn't see anyone, and his heart squeezes. Though really, he can't blame Dorian: Bull doesn't belong here, and sticking his nose into other people's business is never a good plan. Especially when that other person is a stranger, and didn't get a chance to say whether he even wants Bull's help.

But as he gets to the front doors, he sees Dorian and his mother just inside. Dorian's arms are crossed loosely over his chest, his weight resting on one foot as he stares down the hall, away from the doors and his mother.

As the doors whoosh open, Bull catches the tail end of their conversation, Dorian saying in scathing tones, "Yes, Mother, I picked him up at a bar on my way over here, just to piss you off."

Bull can't stop a snort of laughter, but he figures that's all right; if he and Dorian really were together, he would still have laughed. That Dorian's biting sarcasm turns the truth into a lie makes it even funnier.

"Language," Dorian's mother says primly, and Bull actually has to replay what Dorian said to figure out what word prompted the correction.

While he's still doing that, Dorian's mother looks at him, and it's like watching a computer accessing a program; he can practically see the little wheel spinning on the screen as she says, "Introduce me, Dorian."

So she was accessing the social programming, and apparently she's on the old school version that doesn't allow a woman to introduce herself. She probably wouldn't laugh if he suggested it was time for an upgrade.

Bull opens his mouth to avert disaster, because Dorian's going to have a hard time introducing someone whose last name he doesn't know, but Dorian talks over him. "Bull, my mother. Mother, my 'friend.'" He imitates her earlier tone perfectly, and again Bull is impressed by his ability to lie without saying a single word that's actually untrue.

If Dorian's going to play this to the hilt, then the least Bull can do is match him. He puts on the sort of awkward, apologetic smile someone might actually wear in this situation, the one that says, "I know your son is being an ass, but please don't hate me." An appease-the-potential-in-laws sort of smile. "Bull Hassrad," he says, holding out his hand.

"Aquinea Thalrassian-Pavus," she says with a sigh, laying her fingers in his hand barely long enough for Bull to squeeze them, let alone shake them. Bull's tempted to ask her if she wants a cootie-shot, since she's acting like he has the plague. He's also tempted to ask her how she fits that monster of a hyphenated last name onto any official forms.

Before either temptation can get the better of him, Aquinea looks back at Dorian. "If you're quite finished being childish, perhaps we could return to slightly less trivial matters?"

"I'm not the one who stopped for an introduction," Dorian says coolly.

She sighs again, just the faintest breath. A martyr, preparing bravely to face her gruesome death. Bull once knew a chaplain who liked to say, "Get down off that cross, somebody needs the wood," but he bites his tongue on that, too, as he follows her through the hospital.

 _Her husband just died,_ he reminds himself, and that kills any lingering desire to make jokes. Her attitude rubs him the wrong way, but grief is a funny thing, and people sometimes handle it in ways that seem odd to the rest of the world. Besides, he only has Dorian's side of the story, and he met Dorian less than six hours ago. For all he knows, Dorian has some kind of persecution complex that's centered on his parents; Bull's seen it before, and expects he will again.

Of course, that little sneer she put on "your friend" was definitely not a product of Dorian's imagination.

The silence around the three of them is echoed by the general silence of a hospital in the middle of the night, far from the emergency wing. Bringing up the rear, Bull can see Dorian's shoulders hunch then relax, hunch then relax, as the tension gets to him and he tries not to show it. Watching it is excruciating.

In the elevator, Dorian leans into him very slightly, and Bull can't help himself: he hooks one of his fingers into Dorian's, down where Aquinea can't see. Dorian holds on tightly until the doors open and there are suddenly way too many people.

Most of them give Dorian more and less subtle variations of the look Aquinea gave Bull, but there's a woman about Bull's age who pushes through the others to fling her arms around Dorian's neck. He staggers sideways under her weight, into Bull, who catches both of them before they all end up in a heap on the floor.

Neither Dorian nor the woman appears to notice. Dorian has his face pressed into the curve between her neck and her shoulder, and she has both arms tight around him. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice too quiet to carry beyond the three of them. "I gave her your number, I thought you'd want to know."

"It's fine," Dorian whispers back. Then he murmurs something too quiet for Bull to hear. Whatever it is, it makes her sigh and whisper, "I know, pet."

Aquinea looks deeply disapproving, or as deeply as she's looked anything since Bull met her. "Dorian, Matthew, please stop making a spectacle of yourselves."

Matthew?

The woman Dorian's clinging to makes a face, resigned and annoyed and embarrassed, and Bull thinks, _Oh,_ liking Dorian's family less and less.

Dorian pulls away and shares a look with the woman he's been hugging, a look that speaks volumes about shared pain before his face closes down again. "What do we need to do?" he asks, turning toward his mother.

Whatever it is, it involves Aquinea and Dorian disappearing together, and Bull finds himself left alone with Dorian's family. As they all give him a wide berth, it's not actually as bad as it could be. He's got his hand on his phone, about to pull it out to play a few hands of solitaire, when not-Matthew appears in front of him, holding out her hand.

"Maevaris Tilani," she says. "Dorian's cousin." Unlike Aquinea's, her handshake is an actual handshake, not a brief touch by a dead fish.

She also doesn't let go of his hand once she's got it, and she uses it to drag him down the hall away from the others. Mildly alarmed, Bull looks back, but Dorian's nowhere in sight and it's clear no one else is going to interfere with the two remaining pariahs.

When they're almost to a cross-corridor, Bull digs in his heels. "I need to be here when Dorian comes back." It is why he's putting up with all these icy glares, after all. Though the looks don't really bother him; he developed an immunity to them in Afghanistan, and since no one here is likely to leave an IED in his path, he doesn't actually give a shit what they think.

"They'll be a while," Maevaris says, but she stops and swings around to face him, letting go of his hand at last. "You can call me Mae."

"Bull Hassrad," he says, and one of her eyebrows curves up artfully. "Yes, it really is my name, and no, I don't know what my parents were thinking."

She gives him an exaggerated once-over. "Whatever they were thinking, it was clearly prophetic." Her expression is bright with curiosity, and completely lacking in any shade of grief.

"You don't seem real torn up about any of this, so I'm guessing Dorian's father wasn't your favorite person," Bull says, and Mae laughs.

"Hardly, and Aquinea could stroke out tomorrow for all I care. I keep hoping a meteor will strike the annual family reunion, but so far, no luck."

"She's quite a piece of work," Bull says, which he hopes is general enough to cover his ignorance.

Mae snorts and flicks her blonde hair back over her shoulder. "That's one way to put it. They all are. I thought seriously about not coming tonight, because I really don't need the ulcer."

"What changed your mind?"

"Dorian," she says, as if it should be obvious. Then she adds "Well, and because it was easier to give in to my mother than hear about it for the rest of my life, but mostly Dorian. I didn't expect he'd have anyone else, since Max wouldn't be able to come." The look she gives him practically begs him to ask, so he does.

"Why wouldn't Max be able to come?"

"Ha! I knew he hadn't told you. Did he tell you anything before he dragged you into the Ice Queen's reach?"

"He's never really talked about his family much," Bull says. No need to mention that most people don't talk about their families while they're fucking, and there hasn't been any other time they might have talked about it.

"Quelle surprise," she says. She looks at him then, and her eyes are a little too sharp. Fortunately, the reality Bull is currently operating out of is strange enough that she doesn't get to the correct conclusion. "He really doesn't talk about them, does he?"

"Not really," Bull says. "I didn't even know his mother's name until five minutes ago."

"How very Dorian," she says. Then she smiles delightedly. "But that does mean I get to tell the 'Maxwell Trevelyan, Juvenile Delinquent' story!"

"Does this need a drumroll?" Bull asks, amused.

"It needs theme music, but I'll spare you my singing." She leans in conspiratorially. "So after Dorian's parents kicked him out-"

Something must show on his face, because she stops. "Did he tell you _anything_?" she demands.

"No details," Bull says. "I figured out the bare bones for myself."

"For Chrissake, Dorian," she mutters. "Or as Max would say, 'Jesus, Mary, and motherfucking Joseph.'"

Bull snorts out a laugh. "I hadn't heard that one."

"Then you must not have pissed him off. Or he's gotten better about saying it all the time. It has been a while since I last saw him."

Bull thinks back to the glare he got at the club, and shrugs one shoulder noncommittally. He's tripping close to the line, and even if it is far-fetched, if he gives her too many clues, he has a feeling that Mae will figure out the truth. Which would be awkward, to say the least. "So tell me about Maxwell Trevelyan, Juvenile Delinquent."

"You need the backstory, first," she says firmly.

"Which I'm guessing would be Dorian's parents kicking him out? For being gay?"

"At sixteen, yes," Mae confirms, and Bull hides a wince. Mae looks like she's about to add something, then shakes her head. "How long have you known Max?"

"Not long."

"Count your blessings. Dorian swears he's a lot calmer now, but back then? High strung was the phrase my mother used a lot. 'That Trevelyan boy is so high-strung,'" she says in falsetto. "'You stay away from him, Matthew. Nothing like his sister, she's just as sweet as anything.' As if Evelyn didn't get into twice as much trouble as Max, but Max never could lie for shit, and Evelyn could convince you the sky was green and you just needed to get your eyes checked. Still can." This is said with a fond smile and a faraway look. "I had the biggest crush on her when I was younger. God, did I ever."

Bull clears his throat gently, beginning to realize that Mae is entirely capable of permanently derailing herself. "So Dorian's parents kicked him out. Did he stay with Max?"

"No, of course not!" she says, giving him an odd look. "Max is the same age as Dorian. Just a couple days younger, if you want to be technical, which of course Dorian always does. And Max's parents would have shit a brick if Dorian had moved in with them."

"So where did Dorian stay?" Having already revealed that he doesn't know, Bull figures he might as well ask. With any luck, the explanation will kill some of the horrible possibilities now running through his head.

"With me, of course," Mae says, and Bull's stomach unclenches. "Where else would he go? Not that he would let me do more than put a roof over his head. As if we didn't have more than enough money to feed an extra mouth, even if that mouth came attached to a teenaged boy." She casts her eyes up to heaven, as if asking for patience.

"We?" Bull asks. If Mae has any filter between public and private information, Bull's seen no sign of it so far. Then he realizes guiltily that she's not talking to a stranger; in her mind, she's talking to Dorian's boyfriend.

"My husband and me," she says, and she looks sad for a moment. "He died last year, or he'd be here, having far too much fun at everyone's expense."

She's awfully young to be a widow, but Bull is now too aware that he's here under false pretenses, so he doesn't ask. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says instead.

"C'est la vie," she says, but her face doesn't match her tone. Then she shakes herself and smiles brightly again. If Bull hadn't watched Dorian put on the exact same mask an hour ago, it might even be convincing.

What is it with this family and their determination to pretend they have no feelings? At least Mae and Dorian are willing to admit to the more pleasant ones, but still...

"Max?" Bull asks, trying to get back to something safer.

"Max, right. Well, if his parents would have shit a brick at the thought of Dorian moving in, then I guess you could say that Max shit a brick sideways when he heard what happened. Imagine the trouble a 'high-strung' enraged sixteen-year-old can get into."

"I was in the army for twenty years," Bull says dryly. "I don't need to imagine. I'm guessing eighteen isn't all that different from sixteen."

"Not different enough," Mae agrees, and she's looking gleeful again. "He utterly _destroyed_ Aquinea's car. Slashed the tires to shreds, put sugar in the gas tank and then turned it on, took a bat to the windows and headlights and anything else he could get at with enough room to swing. It was a complete wreck."

Bull's not quite sure why this would be enough to keep Max away, a decade later. Admittedly, Bull doesn't know him, but from listening to Mae and Dorian, and from the little Bull saw at the club, Max isn't the kind to get embarrassed, even when he should.

Mae, it turns out, isn't finished yet. "So of course Aquinea had to get a new car. She'd had it three days, and Max did it again. Inside the locked and secured garage, no less, though that's not such a surprise. He always did have the golden touch when it came to anything with circuits. No damn sense at all, but I suppose that's what he has people for now."

She says this like it's supposed to mean something to Bull, so he nods his head knowingly, and that seems to satisfy her.

"He trashed two cars? I can see why he might stay away," Bull says.

"Then you don't know Max very well," Mae says, and then adds in a voice straight out of a late-night infomercial, "But wait, there's more!"

"Oh?" Bull says, because it's clear she wants him to ask.

"The third time, he went for 'subtle.' He took a chisel and cut 'fuck you' into the paint, all over the car. Went straight through to the metal, too."

Bull doesn't know what else to say besides, "Wow. I'm surprised she didn't have him arrested."

Mae curls her lip, some of the excitement leaving her face. "She was going to, but Dorian went to her and said that if she pressed charges, he would petition the court to be made an emancipated minor, and that he would make absolutely sure every detail was in as many papers as possible. She agreed, but she said if she ever saw Max again, _anywhere_ , she'd file a restraining order against him."

Bull's head feels like it's going to explode, too much information too fast to process.

"Personally," Mae goes on, "I would have let Max swing by the noose he made, and I told Dorian that. I mean, let's be realistic: the Trevelyans have money and connections, and there's no way Max would have ended up with anything except a few hours of community service and a sealed juvenile record. But Max got himself in trouble over Dorian, so Dorian had to save him."

"That's...really something," Bull says.

"I know, isn't it? But enough about our dysfunctional family. I haven't talked to Dorian in months, not since," there's the barest hint of a pause, one so short it might just have been to draw breath, "early January, and the rat has been holding out on me. How did you two meet?"

"In a club," Bull says, and hopes Dorian doesn't decide to get creative if he has to make up his own answers before Bull can talk to him. If his mother even asks, which seems pretty unlikely.

"Too cute," she coos, and when Bull looks puzzled, she explains, "It's such a cliché, the one night stand that wasn't."

Bull really doesn't have much to say to that, so he just shrugs one shoulder, and wonders uneasily exactly how much lying he's going to have do. The truth is so much easier, but when he made his snap decision earlier, to let Dorian's mother think they were together, he didn't really have time to consider that the consequences of that first lie would be more lies to support it.

He never thought he'd be glad to see Aquinea, but he is now, because her return with Dorian lets him escape this conversation before Mae can probe too deeply. "They're back," he says, and Mae looks over her shoulder.

"Let the fun begin," Mae says, and tucks her arm through Bull's to escort him back down the corridor.

When he sees them, Dorian gets a funny look on his face, halfway between relieved and concerned. Bull can't blame him, given all the family gossip Mae has just poured in his ear, but he smiles at Dorian and gets a tiny smile in return. _Oh what the hell,_ he thinks, and lifts the arm Mae isn't hanging on.

Dorian hesitates, his eyes jumping around the gathered people, then his chin comes up and he takes the invitation, fitting himself against Bull's side and wrapping an arm around his waist. Bull squeezes his shoulder, feeling the tension in the muscles there.

Back among her family, Mae loses most of her cheerfulness, closing in on herself much the way Dorian has. It's clear she's trying, though, because she looks around Bull to say to Dorian, "Congratulations, by the way, even if I did have to learn about it from Varric. You could have at least texted me, you rat." Her attempt at a smile isn't much. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you," Dorian says, and his smile is no more convincing than hers.

"For what?" Aquinea asks, her head coming up to pierce Dorian with a look Bull last saw on a mother looking at a two-year-old with chocolate all over his hands and face.

Mae looks embarrassed, and shrugs one apologetic shoulder at Dorian. "He made partner at Lavellan and Cadash."

Even Bull's heard of that law firm, and he has to control his surprise as every pair of eyes fixes on Dorian. Presumably Dorian's "friend" would know about it already, so Bull really can't imitate them, no matter how much he wants to.

"Non-equity partner, of course," Aquinea corrects absently. Bull has absolutely no idea what that means, but by the looks Mae and Dorian exchange, the correction isn't actually correct.

"They made me a non-equity partner two years ago," Dorian says quietly, and there's none of the excitement Bull remembers from the club. This is just a dull recitation of facts: a weather report, rather than the kind of news that makes someone burst out with it to a total stranger. "I'm a full equity partner now."

Bull still doesn't know what that means, but it must be impressive, because Aquinea's façade cracks for just a second, and the tangled mix of emotions revealed--pride, sorrow, anger, love--is so intense that Bull looks away. He doesn't want that kind of intimate knowledge of her, and he knows it will only make her hate him more if he does have it.

After a strained pause, she says, "Congratulations. You must have worked very hard for that."

Bull's impressed and appalled at the same time: how does she manage to make that sound like she means exactly the opposite? Like she's accusing Dorian of having slept his way to the top, instead of complimenting him on his work ethic.

Dorian doesn't even blink. "Very hard," he says, still quiet.

Which effectively kills the conversation, and an awkward silence descends. It's clear they're waiting on something, as everyone drifts gradually into the uncomfortable chairs that are the only place to sit. Bull stands beside Dorian, feeling very much like a guard, one hand on his shoulder as a reminder that he does actually have someone in his corner. On Dorian's other side, Mae laces her fingers through his, likely for much the same reason.

That Dorian's best hope of comfort comes from a stranger and a cousin he hasn't talked to in months makes Bull want to grind his teeth. What the hell is wrong with these people?

As the minutes drag by, eyes and heads around the waiting area begin to sag, exhaustion getting the better of people. Bull's stayed awake a lot longer than this in the past, and the anxious anticipation mixed with boredom is painfully familiar from nights standing guard. Staying awake isn't a problem for him.

It's not a problem for Dorian or Aquinea, either. They look disturbingly alike, each sitting with perfect posture, eyes facing front, mouths neither smiling nor frowning. For the first time, Bull can see the family resemblance between them. It probably says something that it's clearest when Dorian has suppressed every single emotion.

The longer Dorian sits like that, the more worried Bull gets, but he's very aware of the lie that brought him here. He doesn't actually know Dorian, and doesn't know if it's better to let him keep his composure, or remind him more forcefully that these people are no longer his whole world. With nothing else to go on, Bull takes his cue from Mae, who continues to hold Dorian's hand without speaking.

In memory, Bull touches Dorian's face and hears him whisper, "Don't." He wonders how many times Mae's heard that same whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't know (I'm guessing that's pretty much everyone), Dorian's introduction of Bull is a subtle insult to his mother. If you're being really old school, you always introduce the lower-status person to the higher-status person (and almost always introduce the man to the woman). So, "Bull, this is my mother," says that, in Dorian's view, Bull outranks Aquinea.
> 
> Yay for useless trivia! Now you, too, can subtly insult people at cocktail parties. So subtly that 99% of them won't even notice, and the remaining 1% will just assume you didn't know better.


	4. Not Too Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep heading west that's the best  
> May be lost but I'm not crazy  
> Stay where you are not too far  
> Keep it up you're doing fine  
> Well, I thought I was fine
> 
> Kevin Moore, "Even The Waves"

It's almost dawn before they leave the hospital, and Dorian maintains his aloofness right up until the car door closes behind him. Then he folds himself in half, face pressed to his palms, so still he doesn't even seem to be breathing. If anything, he looks like he's trying to collapse in on himself and disappear.

Bull leans over the center console to hug him awkwardly, his face against the back of Dorian's neck. He doesn't say anything, because there's not really anything he can say, but god, he wishes there was. What a fucked up family.

They stay that way long enough for Bull's back to start complaining, but he grits his teeth and lives with it until Dorian shifts and tries to sit up.

"Do you want me to drop you at Max's?" Bull asks as he starts the car.

"No, thank you," Dorian says. It's not the coolly polite tone he used on his mother, but it's also completely lacking in any emotion. Bull's skin crawls.

The drive back to Bull's house is as silent as the drive to the hospital was, this time without even occasional relief from a computerized voice telling him to "Make a legal U-turn." Dorian puts his head back against the seat like he's napping, but every time Bull glances his way, his eyes are wide open and staring at the roof of the car. He hardly seems to blink, even when Bull parks the car.

Sitting in the driveway, the sky just starting to turn light in the east, it's clear Dorian is struggling with himself. After nearly a minute of silence, Bull gives up waiting and gets out of the car, walking around to open the passenger side door while Dorian is still fumbling with his seat belt, the first time he's moved in the last twenty minutes. That he's working so hard on something so simple just solidifies Bull's determination not to let him do something stupid. Where "do something stupid" means "do anything except go to sleep."

He reaches past Dorian and hits the seat belt release, then tugs him to his feet. Dorian turns half-heartedly toward his own car, so Bull just picks him up and carries him. He expects at least a token protest, if not real outrage, and he's so startled he almost drops him when Dorian does nothing of the sort. Instead, he presses his face against Bull's chest and wraps his arms around Bull's neck, clinging to him as if Bull is carrying him out of a fire in some damn movie.

Once in the house, Bull strips Dorian down and tucks him into bed, more concerned by the silence with every passing second. Maybe they've known each other less than twelve hours, but that's plenty of time for Bull to know that Dorian is a talker, and that this silence is all kinds of wrong.

Dorian's phone is a hard lump in one pocket of his pants when Bull goes to fold them. As he pulls it out and holds it up, he asks, "Do you need to call anyone, let them know you're okay?" Not that Dorian's looking in the least bit okay, but he's alive and in one piece, and Bull doesn't know if there's a roommate or a friend wondering if he's either.

Dorian starts to shake his head wordlessly, then hesitates, and sighs. Bull hands over his phone, and, since Dorian makes no effort to move it away from him, watches shamelessly as he types out a text to somebody identified at the top only as M. Whoever he or she is, Dorian clearly texts them a lot, if the size of the scroll bar is anything to go by. The small bit of conversation he can see, from two or three hours ago, almost makes Bull laugh, but he manages to keep quiet.

 

M: Are you alive?  
Dorian: Yes.  
M: Are you OK?  
Dorian: No.  
Dorian: Not Bull's fault.  
M: What's wrong?  
M: Wait.  
M: HIS NAME IS BULL??? REALLY???

 

The first text Dorian sends now is short: _Still not dead._ Dorian looks at the phone for a second, then a half smile touches his mouth and he adds: _Will call this afternoon. No trip to Wal-Mart for me._

Which makes absolutely no sense, and Bull wonders if it's an in-joke, or a pre-defined code-word. He knows women who do that, and he's known enough creeps in his life that he doesn't blame them. Part of him hopes it is a code-word, because it means Dorian didn't actually let a complete stranger tie him up without any safeguards in place, but most of the men Bull has seen use a code-word are ones who've been burned in the past, and he finds himself more upset than he should be at the thought of Dorian hurt like that. It's not the distant anger he feels watching the news, either; this is a personal anger, the kind he used to feel watching his soldiers get stitched up or airlifted out.

None of which is useful right now, or really ever, so Bull sets it aside.

Texts sent, Dorian hands the phone back, and Bull puts it with his clothes. Facing away from the bed to give Dorian a little privacy, Bull asks, "Do you want me to sleep on the couch?"

"No," Dorian whispers, and Bull looks back at him over one shoulder. Dorian shakes his head vehemently to emphasize his answer, one hand held out to Bull, who takes that reaching hand in both of his. He drops a kiss to the inside of Dorian's wrist, letting his mouth rest there a second longer than strictly necessary as he breathes in the smell of Dorian's skin. "Just give me a minute," he murmurs, and Dorian nods.

Bull checks the house one last time, making sure doors are locked and lights are off, a ritual that's more about calming his nerves than about actual security. By the time he gets back to the bedroom, Dorian's eyes are closed, but they blink open at the quiet click of the door latch. Dorian watches him undress, still in complete silence, and lifts the covers so Bull can slide beneath them.

As soon as Bull is lying down, Dorian moves, all traces of sleepiness gone. He's straddling Bull's thighs while Bull is still opening his mouth to say "what?" and the hand closing on his cock turns the word into gibberish. It's impossible to see Dorian's face in the darkness, but his hand moves like he's a man on a mission.

Surprising as it is after the silence and passivity, Bull's not unfamiliar with the desire to fight grief with sex, and he's not opposed to being used for same. And Dorian definitely knows what he's doing.

It's been a long day, exhausting in every sense of the word, and that's the only excuse Bull has for why it takes him the better part of two minutes to realize that something is really wrong. Dorian's skillful fingers don't make it any easier, and he's rolling a condom on by the time Bull has collected his thoughts. Rolling it on with his mouth, a trick Bull hasn't seen anybody do in a long time, and certainly not as well as Dorian manages it. It's another distraction, and Bull can't stop his body from reacting.

Something wet and warm splashes on his hip, but it isn't until the second drop falls that Bull realizes what they are. Tears. They're tears.

Dorian is crying.

It's an instant erection killer-- _Just add water!_ a slightly hysterical part of his brain offers by way of contribution--and Bull says sharply, "Stop!"

Dorian ignores him, wrapping his fingers tightly around the base of Bull's cock to keep it from softening.

"Dorian," Bull says, forcing his voice quieter. "I thought stop was your safeword."

That gets through, thank god. Bull's no longer worried about losing control, but he has no desire to get in a wrestling match with someone whose mouth is around his dick. Too much potential for permanent damage, and unintentional damage is still damage.

Bull gets his hands under Dorian's arms and pulls him up to rest his head on Bull's chest, ditching the condom over the side of the bed. Passive again, Dorian lets Bull arrange his body, still saying nothing.

"It's okay," Bull says, which is both inane and a lie, but he can't think of anything else and the silence is finally getting to him. He threads his fingers into Dorian's hair and wraps his other arm around Dorian's waist, holding him close.

Dorian doesn't return the embrace, but he doesn't fight it either as tears drip down Bull's arm. There are no sobs to accompany those tears, and Dorian is almost completely still as he breathes slowly through parted lips. Occasionally, his body twitches in something that could easily be mistaken for a hiccup, except for the growing wet spot under Bull's shoulder.

Finally, _finally_ Dorian speaks, in a voice that sounds like it hurts. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Bull asks. He knows the answer, but he hopes making Dorian say it out loud will help him realize how stupid it is.

"I can't even get a goddamn blowjob right!"

So much for that idea. Bull sighs, wishing he was having this conversation on at least a few hours' sleep. "This has nothing to do with blowjobs."

Dorian turns his head, wiping one cheek on Bull's chest. "I just wanted to give you something," he whispers into Bull's shoulder. "You've been...god, you don't even _know_ me. You've put up with my family, you've put up with me, you deserve to get something out of this."

"I'm pretty sure nobody ever did anything good enough to earn a blowjob from someone who's crying." He hesitates, not sure exactly how much of a sense of humor Dorian has about the whole thing, then figures what the hell. "And I don't feel like I was 'putting up' with you. Your family, yeah okay, I'll agree with you there, but not about you."

It gets a very brief laugh, but at least it's a laugh.

Eventually, Dorian turns away, and for a second, Bull thinks it's an emotional withdrawal as much as a physical one. Then Dorian presses back against him, and Bull gets the hint, rolling onto his side to put an arm around him and spoon their bodies together. Dorian shifts as if trying to get closer, but there's no room left between them, so Bull leans forward, resting more and more of his weight on Dorian until some of the tension eases from his body.

He makes a surprisingly good little spoon, his body fitting perfectly into Bull's. He's also a lot smaller than he's seemed up to now, and Bull feels a rush of protectiveness. The armor Dorian put on before going to meet his family is gone, as is the confidence bordering on arrogance that Bull saw at the club. There's been no trace of his smile for hours, the smile he sent Bull's way, the smile that said maybe he wasn't the kind to play hard-to-get after all.

Right up until he smiled at the club, Dorian looked like exactly the sort of person who would play the games Bull hates, and Bull knows he might still be. Certainly his family is the kind that would teach someone that sort of shit. And yet, despite everything that's happened tonight, Bull's not sorry he smiled back.

He tightens his arm around Dorian and goes to sleep.

###

He wakes around ten, Dorian still fast asleep, still curled against him, if a little more loosely. Despite his best efforts, when Bull tries to untangle their bodies, Dorian half wakes and reaches out with a mumbled protest. Though Bull doesn't usually like lying in bed once he's awake, he lets himself be pulled back down until he's lying half on top of Dorian. He can stay a little longer, he decides, and before he knows it, he's asleep again.

The next time he wakes, it's almost noon. Dorian is already awake, but he's holding himself motionless, as if afraid of waking Bull by moving.

"Sorry," Bull mumbles around a yawn, and rolls off Dorian to lie on his back. "Didn't mean to crush you." He stretches without opening his eye, reaching out with his toes and up with his arms until his joints pop.

"You didn't," Dorian says softly, and Bull's eye opens fast when Dorian kisses the side of his neck. "It felt good," Dorian whispers into his ear.

Bull can't think of anything to say to that, so he twists around to kiss Dorian on the mouth. Dorian allows a brief touch, nothing more than a peck, before sliding away. "Morning breath," he says, but there's the trace of a laugh at the corners of his eyes, so Bull doesn't object.

Then he completely forgets about objecting as Dorian wraps a hand around his cock and begins to stroke lightly. Waking up with a hot guy stretched underneath him has left Bull already half hard, and it doesn't take Dorian long to change that to all-the-way hard. Dorian is more relaxed this morning, that faint smile still teasing at his mouth, and he doesn't look like he sounded last night, like this is some terrible debt he needs to pay, so Bull just keeps a close eye on his face, watching for any sign that this is turning in a bad direction again.

Tracking Dorian's mood doesn't keep him from enjoying the way Dorian touches him, soft strokes on his dick and the occasional gentle bite against his chest. Just before Bull can suggest he break out the lube, or at least some hand lotion, Dorian lets go of him to grab the bottle and one of the condoms off the bedside table.

Bull's grateful Dorian doesn't repeat last night's trick of putting the condom on with his mouth; at least for today, that particular move is not going to be a turn-on. Dorian uses his hands instead, smoothing it down with the kind of loving attention to detail most people reserve for polishing their trophies. His sleep-tousled hair and look of intense concentration are almost cute, though Bull knows better than to say any such thing aloud. That hint of a smile has become more than a hint, and if it's a bit sleepy, that doesn't actually detract from it.

The condom on, Dorian applies the lube liberally, his gaze back on Bull's face as he does it. His obvious pleasure at seeing Bull's pleasure only makes Bull thrust up harder into his hand, a feedback loop between the two of them that leaves them both breathless.

Dorian's strokes turn jerky and uneven as he comes up on one knee to reach behind himself. It looks awkward, but when Bull tries to help, Dorian pushes his hand away. "Let me do it," Dorian says, the words as uneven as his strokes. "Please, I want to, and you des-" He stops, and Bull knows exactly what word he cut off. "I want to do it," Dorian says instead.

They're treading close to that line again, but since Dorian is actually enjoying himself this time, Bull lets it go and just enjoys the show. Dorian's movements smooth out as he gets the angles to work, stroking Bull's cock while he fingers himself, eyes closed tight in concentration.

His fist tightens, and Bull groans, then groans again, more softly, as the sound makes Dorian's nipples come to hard points. Bull wants to sit up and bite one or both of them, but since Dorian very clearly wants him to just lie here, he settles for pinching one between his fingertips, rubbing a little bit to grind it down around the part of the ring that actually goes through Dorian's skin. It gets a nice gasp, so Bull does it again, twisting a little this time, and Dorian's chest presses forward into the touch.

Bull's hips are moving in small, involuntary thrusts now, Dorian's grip maintaining exactly the right degree of firmness, not too hard and not too soft. "Dorian," he says, and he doesn't care that his voice is rough.

Apparently Dorian doesn't care either, because he shivers at the sound. "Bull," he says, half teasing and half breathless.

"If you want me to fuck you," Bull growls, "then you'd better do it soon or you're going to lose your chance."

Dorian laughs, and it's a laugh Bull hasn't heard from him before: low and delighted and completely relaxed. That laugh, and the look on Dorian's face that goes with it, leave Bull feeling a little stunned.

"You know just what to say to a guy," Dorian says as he moves to straddle Bull's hips. There's no chance to reply, because he lowers himself onto Bull's cock, taking it all in without pausing, one smooth slide all the way down.

Bull has to clench every muscle in his body to keep himself still, and he grabs Dorian's hips, a little too late. "Careful," he murmurs. "Take it slow."

Dorian shoots him an amused look. "I might not know much about handcuffs, but I do know this."

And god, does he ever. He rolls his hips once, almost experimentally, settling himself on Bull's pelvis. From that position, he looks down and smiles at whatever he sees. Without moving his hips, he puts his hands on Bull's shoulders and leans down to say against his throat, "No bull-riding jokes, or I'm gone."

Although Bull's been known to make that particular joke in the past, right now he's still reeling from the combined force of Dorian's smile and Dorian's ass, and he isn't sure he could actually put syllables together into a word, much less words into a sentence.

Dorian's beauty is the first thing Bull noticed about him, but the look of sleepy delight on his face right now takes him from beautiful to poetry-inspiring. Or it would, if Bull had ever managed to compose anything other than the occasional dirty limerick. This view, though...this view deserves sonnets or sestinas or _something_. Haiku, at a minimum.

Then Dorian begins to move, and Bull doesn't care about poetry anymore, just lets go of Dorian's hips to grab the blankets before he leaves bruises. To his surprise, Dorian bends sideways to grab one of his hands and put it back where it was. "Fuck me," he breathes, and Bull has to open his mouth to get enough air. "You're not going to hurt me, and I want to feel you tomorrow."

Obligingly, Bull digs his fingers in to Dorian's hips, and arches up to meet Dorian's ass coming down. He's careful at first, letting Dorian control the speed, until it becomes clear that he was serious: the harder Bull moves, the louder Dorian groans, until his eyes are squeezed shut and he's gasping out "fuck yes fuck yes fuck yes" in a raspy whisper that makes Bull hope they can do this again sometime, with Dorian on his knees so Bull can really get some force behind his thrusts. Of course, if Dorian were on his knees, Bull wouldn't be able to see his face, and his face is definitely worth watching.

With one hand still moving Dorian's body, Bull wraps the other around Dorian's cock, pressing his thumb just under the head. Dorian's fingers are working the rings in his nipples, and a very small part of Bull is taking note of exactly how hard he's twisting, filing the information away for later.

The rest of him is reciting that "fuck yes fuck yes" litany too, even if silently. One of Dorian's hands drops from nipple to cock, squeezing Bull's hand tight. Bull brings that hand to his mouth to suck on Dorian's fingers until they're slick and wet before putting Dorian's hand back on his own cock. As Dorian strokes himself, Bull grabs both of his hips and thrusts up hard, knowing he's right on the edge.

Dorian's head falls back and his body stiffens, the muscles in his stomach tight as he fucks into his own fist and comes. It hits Bull hard, all five senses: the smell of sex, the taste of Dorian's skin, the sight of him bowed back, the sound of his little stuttering gasps as he struggles for air. And most of all, the way it feels: his thighs gripping Bull's waist, his hips under Bull's hands, his ass around Bull's cock.

Bull groans, his eye squeezing shut as his own orgasm pulls him under. His fingers press in hard, and he probably _is_ leaving bruises, but he can't let go, not with Dorian's body clenching around his. His heels dig in to the mattress and his ass comes up off the bed a few inches, his hands holding Dorian in place until they're both drained and his body goes limp.

Dorian collapses against his chest, breath still too fast and body twitching. "Fuck, _yes_ ," he whispers against Bull's chest, and Bull laughs.

"That's one way to start the day," Bull says, combing his fingers through Dorian's hair. "A pretty good one, too."

"Just pretty good?" Dorian says archly, but he's teasing, not fishing for compliments, so Bull just smacks him lightly on the ass. It gets him an equally casual bite on the side of his neck before Dorian slips out of his grasp.

Bull gets rid of the condom, then just lies there, listening to the water running in the bathroom. It runs a long time, so long Bull begins to wonder what Dorian's doing, but eventually it shuts off and Dorian comes back, cup in one hand and wash cloth in the other.

"Did you know that your hot water apparently makes a stop at your neighbor's house, between here and the water heater?" Dorian says. "Or I assume it does, given how long it takes for the water to get warm."

"Yeah, I keep meaning to get to that, but you know how it is. You gotta dig up the water lines, and then the yard looks like shit and the neighbors complain."

"Especially the one no longer getting free hot water," Dorian says, holding out the wash cloth.

It's hot enough to steam, visible even in the bedroom's dim light. Bemused, Bull takes it and wipes himself down, trading wash cloth for cup when he's done. "Full service," he teases when he hands back the empty cup, and Dorian smirks at him.

"I'm going to take a shower, if that's all right."

"Yeah, sure," Bull says. "I'm just gonna lie here and recover a little bit more."

If possible, Dorian's smirk gets smirkier, and he bends down to kiss Bull. "Why do you need to recover? I did all the work."

He sidesteps the swat this time, spinning out of the way with perfect timing, and goes into the bathroom smiling. Bull closes his eye and listens to the shower running, feeling pretty content with the current state of his world. He considers following Dorian into the bathroom to see how long it would take to get him off again, but the bed's comfortable, and he's feeling pleasantly boneless.

Only when he brings his hands up to rub his face does he realize that his eyepatch has disappeared somewhere. That shocks the drowsiness from his body, and he sits up, tossing pillows and blankets aside until he finds it and can put it back on. Christ, that must have been quite a view for Dorian. The scar is ugly, and more than one person has turned a little green at the sight. Personally, Bull doesn't think it's that bad--the skin has healed cleanly--but he's very aware of the need to keep it covered around others.

Except Dorian didn't seem bothered by it. Even if Bull lost the eyepatch while they were fucking and Dorian was distracted, there was no such distraction after, and nothing in Dorian's face or posture had suggested there was anything wrong. There was no carefully averted gaze, no darting looks, no gawking.

That's very nearly a first, in Bull's experience. He sits on the bed, the fingers of one hand against the eyepatch, not sure what to think.

There's no chance to ask about it, though, because Dorian comes out of the bathroom with his masks fixed firmly in place, polite and distant, and Bull regrets the decision not to follow him in. Too late now, and his attempts to get back the Dorian who will admit to having emotions don't make so much as a dent. Bull could always go for the nuclear option--he knows where those buttons are now--but Dorian's life is already full of people manipulating his emotions for their own ends. As uncomfortable as it makes Bull to see all that personality and humor locked down into bland social niceties, his discomfort doesn't really give him the right to pick Dorian apart.

At the door, Dorian hesitates, one hand on the knob. "Thank you," he says, and the words have all the emotion he's been hiding since he stepped out of the shower. "For everything. I'd probably have plastered my car against a wall if you'd let me drive home earlier."

It's a little unclear to Bull whether Dorian is implying that it would have been intentional, but he doesn't ask. If he's decided not to pick at Dorian's scabs, then he needs to leave them the hell alone.

"Call me sometime," is all he says. "Hell, I'm free tonight if you want to try this again."

Dorian's eyes shift away. "Not tonight," he says. "I'm meeting my mother at the funeral home this afternoon."

If ever there was something guaranteed to kill anyone's libido, Bull will readily admit that it's a trip to the funeral home with his estranged mother to discuss burial arrangements for his equally estranged father. Still, watching Dorian's face, Bull knows he's not going to call tomorrow either. Dorian knows that his absolutely impeccable excuse for tonight will get him out the door without a scene, and then Bull can call as much as he likes, send a hundred texts, and get no answer.

One night isn't nearly enough time to even start to know someone, but last night was a little unusual, and it gave Bull a decent look into how Dorian works. He's too self-contained, takes too much pride in his independence, to appreciate anyone seeing his private pain. Easier to distance himself than to face that unsought intimacy.

"Maybe tomorrow," Dorian says, still without meeting Bull's gaze. "I'll call you."

"Works for me," Bull says, as if he can't hear the lie screaming at him from every line in Dorian's body.

Once Dorian's gone, Bull goes back to his bedroom to clean up, but he finds himself just staring at the bed, remembering last night before the phone rang. He has a clear memory of Dorian as he looked tied to the bed, right on the edge of orgasm: hands clenched into fists, arms tense as he strained against the cuffs, mouth wide as he gasped for breath. Add that to the equally clear memory of Dorian riding him this morning, and even if Dorian never calls, at least Bull got a couple good jerk-off fantasies out of it.

When that thought fails to stir any interest from his dick, Bull sighs and admits that somehow, in less than twenty-four hours, he let himself get attached. _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he thinks. _Get unattached, because he's not going to call._

As he begins coiling the rope, Bull decides he'll go back out tonight. Find someone cute--find someone cute and _female_ \--and have some fun, and forget about Dorian's hair sliding between his fingers and Dorian's body moving above his and Dorian's laugh in his ear.

And Dorian's hands, reaching out in his sleep.


	5. Painfully New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I barely know you  
> We've been sort of friends  
> So what if I called you and called you again  
> What would I tell you  
> Where would I begin
> 
> Please forgive me  
> If I don't know what to do  
> It's an old fire  
> This familiar desire  
> But my skin is painfully new
> 
> Melissa Etheridge, "Please Forgive Me"

The trip to the funeral home is exactly as bad as Dorian thought it would be, though at least there are fewer people than at the hospital: just his mother and his father's oldest sister, both regarding him with the same cool disdain as always.

In the tone she uses to deliver her most subtle insults, his mother asks, "Will your friend be joining us?"

"Nah," Dorian says, drawing the word out because he knows the informality will annoy her. "He had a root canal scheduled, figured that would be more fun."

Aquinea's face doesn't change, but then, it doesn't need to. She's never needed a frown to bring Dorian into line; right up until he walked out the door and never came back, the mere threat of her disapproval was all it took. "Do you really think this is the time for inappropriate humor?"

"Of course not," Dorian says with a tight smile. "That's rather the definition of inappropriate, isn't it?"

Behind Aquinea, the funeral home director's mouth twitches very briefly before he schools his face back to professional sympathy.

Aquinea continues to regard Dorian with the same flatly expectant look, like she's waiting for an apology. She'll be waiting a while, if that's the case, because Dorian will cut out his own tongue before he apologizes to her again. He spent sixteen years groveling for her approval and apologizing for who he is, and he's not going to start back up now.

No matter how easily his mouth shapes the words, ready to send them out in instinctive appeasement.

"Shall we get started?" asks the funeral home director. Clearly a past master at the art of defusing hostile families, he holds out his hand to Dorian with a perfectly calibrated smile. "I'm Viuus Anaxas, and you must be Dorian. I'm so sorry for your loss."

That he says it without a flicker probably means Aquinea's told him absolutely nothing. Either that, or Dorian never wants to play poker against him. "I'm so sorry for your loss." Right.

As he holds out his hand for Viuus to shake, Dorian considers and discards several possible answers. "I'm not"? "It wasn't a loss"? "When I was fourteen, he sent me to a conversion camp where they did things that would be considered torture if done to adults"?

"Thank you," he says instead, and takes the third seat.

As he sits, he smells something half familiar, and his hindbrain shouts Bull's name so forcefully that he twitches a few inches up out of the chair, like he's sat on a tack. Only after he's settled back, ignoring the questioning look Viuus sends him, does Dorian pick apart what happened.

He smells like Bull's soap, a smell that apparently bypasses his conscious mind and goes straight to whatever switch in his brain is responsible for making him feel safe. Every time he turns, he catches that scent again and remembers sitting in the hospital, Mae holding one hand while Bull squeezes his shoulder. It's comforting, but it's also mortifying, that he dragged a complete stranger into the disaster that is his family. Even more embarrassing to find that now just Bull's _smell_ is enough to signal his brain that all is right with the world.

It makes it damned hard to concentrate on what Viuus is saying, and it doesn't help that every time he shifts on the hard wooden seat, he gets a clear sensory memory of fucking himself on Bull's cock a few hours ago. He wonders what would have happened if he'd blown his mother off and just stayed in Bull's bed all afternoon. Would it have been possible to convince him to leave the eyepatch off, that it didn't really matter to Dorian one way or the other? It hadn't escaped his notice that Bull had gone to sleep wearing it, and put it back on as soon as he wasn't distracted by sex.

Dorian had almost asked about it when he came out of the shower, but he hadn't been able to find words he could say without taking down all the walls he'd just spent twenty minutes putting back up. Besides, what difference does it make? It's not as if they'll ever see each other again.

"Dorian?" he mother asks, and he blinks.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he does actually mean it. His relationship with his father had little to commend it for the last sixteen years, but thinking about Bull when he's supposed to be thinking about funeral arrangements is a bit much. "What was the question?"

Viuus repeats it without censure. Something about Dorian's role in the ceremony, and for once, he and his mother are in perfect agreement: absolutely none. Dorian's barely convinced himself to attend at all, and the last thing he wants is to stand in front of a few hundred people and talk about how wonderful his father was. Though it might be briefly entertaining to tell the truth. At least tradition is on his side in some ways, and he won't be a pallbearer, either. He'll just have to sit in the front row for the entire ceremony, with a church full of people staring at the back of his head.

Lovely.

The rest of the arrangements only require him to nod and agree with whatever his mother says. He doesn't care about the casket, or the grave marker, or the flowers. Or--god help him--the obituary. His mother, or the people she'll hire, can write that without any help from him. All he wants is to be done with this whole thing, so he can go back to pretending he has no family except Mae.

He feels like he's been released from prison when they're finished, and he takes a deep breath of air scented with hot asphalt and cut grass as soon as he clears the funeral home doors. But before he can escape, his mother says, "Dorian?" and he stops, an almost Pavlovian response.

"Yes?" he asks, without turning.

"Will your friend be joining you next Saturday?"

"Unlikely," Dorian says. "I prefer not to torture people I care about." Against anyone else, it would be a low blow, but since Aquinea has never shown any indication that she thinks there was anything wrong with sending Dorian to a conversion camp, he doubts the words will have an impact now.

She makes a faintly disapproving noise, as if he's a child who's just spilled juice on the floor.

"I'll see you Saturday," he says, before she can provoke him into something he'll regret later.

"Friday," she corrects, and Dorian grimaces. Only Halward Pavus would have a funeral so elaborate it needs a fucking rehearsal. And since his only role in the ceremony involves sitting still for it, there's really no reason he needs to be there.

But, "Friday," he agrees, and walks away.

###

When he gets home, he takes another shower, even though it's been less than four hours since the last one. He washes Bull's smell from his skin and tries to pretend it's a relief. Standing naked in the middle of his bedroom, he doesn't even believe himself.

Rather than think about it more, he calls Max, who picks up halfway through the first ring. "Jesus, Mary, and motherfucking Joseph," Max snarls. "Where the _fuck_ have you been?"

"My father died," Dorian says, and he's too tired to put any emotion into the words. He feels like a bucket someone kicked a hole in, and all his energy has drained away.

Max chokes on whatever invective he'd planned to let loose next, and there's a long pause, during which Dorian places bets with himself on what Max will say. "About fucking time," perhaps. Or maybe, "Really? Can I help with the part where we bury his heart at a crossroad?" Possibly, "When's the funeral so I can book the cheering squad?"

But Max must be growing up--at last--because what he asks is, "What happened?"

"Aneurysm." Dorian rubs his aching eyes. "The doctor says it would have been quick, that he likely didn't suffer."

"Now I know there's no justice in the world," Max says, and Dorian smiles, because that's the Max he knows and loves. "When's the funeral?"

"No," Dorian says.

"What?" Max asks innocently. "No funeral?"

"No, you can't go. The last thing I need is my best friend arrested at my father's funeral."

"There's this thing called the statute of limitations," Max points out. "Shouldn't you know that, bright boy, you with your fancy law degree?"

God, Dorian hates that nickname. Max hung it on him early in their friendship, and he pulls it out whenever he wants to be spectacularly annoying.

"She would find a reason to kick you out," Dorian says.

"I don't give a shit about her."

"Do you give a shit about me? Because I really don't need the stress."

"Fuck you," Max says, almost seriously. "We call that emotional blackmail, where I'm from."

"I call it not making a hard day harder." Dorian lets himself fall back onto his bed and closes his eyes. "Mae will be there, and we'll keep each other sane."

Max grumbles, but quietly enough Dorian can't make out the words and so doesn't have to address them. There's another long silence, something Dorian normally abhors, except they've never bothered him when it's just Max.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Max asks after a while.

"No," Dorian says, because he really doesn't.

"All right," Max says, and lapses into silence again. Then he asks tentatively, "So other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?"

Dorian laughs, and if it's a little cracked, Max refrains from commenting. "What, you mean my hot date with Bull?"

"I still can't believe you fucked a guy named Bull," Max mutters. "Or let him fuck you, or whatever." Suddenly hopeful, he asks, "Or maybe you didn't know his name when you said yes?"

"You'd really rather believe I went home with someone when I didn't even know his first name?" Not that Dorian knew much more than that, but so what?

"Well, they both show an appalling lack of judgment on your part," Max says, "but one of them you can learn from."

"I can learn that you're an asshole?"

"You already knew that, I hope. If not, I'm calling the police right now, because you've clearly been brainwashed."

"He went with me to the hospital," Dorian says, and he didn't mean to, but after everything Bull did for him, he can't just lie there and let Max talk shit about him, even in jest.

"He...what?"

"My mother called while we were... _occupied_...and he offered to go with me."

"All right," Max says, and Dorian can picture the narrow-eyed squint that goes with that tone. "Back it up, start from the beginning."

"It's not that interesting," Dorian says.

"The hell you say, bright boy. Starting talking."

Dorian sighs and tells him everything.

Well, not quite everything, since Max really doesn't need to know that Dorian let a complete stranger tie him to a bed. In hindsight, that maybe wasn't the smartest thing Dorian's ever done. Max would likely have an aneurysm to match Halward's if Dorian even hinted at it, no matter how well it turned out in the end. Max also doesn't need to know about the disastrous failed blowjob, or about the significantly less disastrous fuck that Dorian expects to feel until at least tomorrow, the one that speeds up his heart a little even after the day he's had. He tries not to think about it as he gives Max the rest of the details.

"Holy fucking Jesus," Max says when he's done. "Really, Pavus? A fake boyfriend? I can't decide if I'm appalled by your lack of common sense or in awe of your solid brass balls." He laughs suddenly, almost a cackle. "I wish I had been there to see the Ice Queen's face, though. Imagining it after the fact just isn't the same."

"I...don't remember."

Max stops laughing. "Sorry, that was perhaps a bit much even for me. You sure you don't want to talk about?"

"Very sure. If I could find a way to stop thinking about it, I would."

"Well, there's always Bull-riding."

Dorian grimaces. "How did I know you would go there?"

"Because you've known me long enough to appreciate my low-brow sense of humor?"

"I don't know that appreciate is entirely the right word." He hesitates, then asks, "Do you think I should call him?"

"Christ, Pavus, do I look like Dr. Phil? You already know my opinion, but you're a big boy, you can make up your own damn mind."

So Max is voting no. Given the embarrassment that still hits Dorian every time he thinks about how he let Bull get dragged into his family bullshit, Dorian's not entirely sure he disagrees.

"I know," Dorian says softly, then bites back a yawn. Too much emotion and not enough sleep. "I also know I'm exhausted. I'll talk to you tomorrow, all right?"

"All right," Max says. "Call me if you need anything."

"I will."

Dorian's about to hang up when he hears Max say something else. Putting the phone back to his ear, he says, "I'm sorry, what?"

"Take care of yourself," Max repeats. "You know I love you." Three words that half of Max's lovers have run themselves ragged trying to drag from his lips, and the only two people he ever says them to are Dorian, and his sister Evelyn.

Dorian shakes his head, smiling. "I love you, too." Three words Dorian has said to almost all of his own lovers, only to have them thrown back in his face eventually, every time.

"I know," Max says. "Tell Mae I said hi." And he's gone.

Dorian turns off his phone and lies there staring at the ceiling, the silence allowing his thoughts to wander in exactly the direction he's been trying to avoid.

He remembers waking up this morning to Bull's weight pinning him to the bed. It wouldn't have been too hard to escape, if by no other means than simply waking Bull up, but getting away had been the last thing on his mind. It wasn't the half hard cock against his ass that held him in place either, though that was certainly nice. He'd felt _safe_ , and it had been so long since he'd felt that way anywhere but alone in his own bed that he stayed quiet and enjoyed it.

At the same time, thinking about last night makes him cringe: from letting Bull carry him into the house to _crying_ during sex, it's one embarrassment after another. "Call me," Bull said, but surely he can't actually want to deal with Dorian again. Dorian doesn't even want to deal with himself.

Other, more pleasant memories crowd in, though, and they're no easier to avoid than the mortifying ones. Bull watching him come, so obviously enjoying it despite the fact that he was getting nothing out of it directly. Bull touching his face after the phone call from his mother. Bull tucking their bodies together, staying curled around him even in sleep.

Even the memory of Bull carrying him isn't entirely embarrassing. Dorian's never slept with anyone who was actually strong enough to carry him more than a few steps, but it's not the display of physical strength that makes the memory so hard to shake; it's the knowledge that someone would want to, would want to take care of him and wouldn't hold that moment of weakness against him later.

Bull invited him to call, after all. Surely he wouldn't have made the offer if he didn't mean it? Except that in Dorian's experience, people say things they don't mean all the time, because the polite lie now is easier. A gentle lie that both parties know is a lie lets both save face, saves the kind of awkward conversation most people want to avoid.

But Bull didn't seem like the kind of person to lie.

Dorian suffers through a week of this indecision--it gets to the point where Max bans Bull's name from their conversations--and he's still dithering about it Friday evening as he sits through the rehearsal for the funeral, which is a wonderful combination of boring and excruciating. It all prompts a hideous nostalgia in Dorian, and by the time he's released, the only thing he wants is to go home and hide for three or four days. He's shaking a little as he crosses the parking lot, and he sits behind the wheel without turning the car on, waiting for it to stop.

His phone rings, setting his heart racing again, and he glances down to see Max's face flash up. Dorian seriously considers not answering, because as much as he loves the guy, he's not sure he can deal with him right now. Guilt moves his thumb to the green button on the screen, though, and he manages a relatively civil, "Hi, Max."

"How bad was it?"

"About what I was expecting. Not as bad as I feared."

"Small mercies, I suppose," Max says. "You want to come over? We can order pizza and watch the rest of _Daredevil_."

It's tempting, if only so he can imagine his father in place of whoever's getting tortured or gruesomely murdered this episode, but instead he says, "I'm going to see if Bull's free."

Max groans. "Bull? Really?"

"I'm calling him," Dorian says firmly, more certain every time he says it. "I'm calling him right now."

"This is a terrible idea," Max says.

"No, I'll tell you what's a terrible idea. Sitting around all night thinking about the two assholes I call parents."

"I just offered you a perfectly valid third choice."

"TV shows are not a sufficient distraction, and you know it. Sex or whiskey, those are the only things that are going to turn my brain off tonight."

"I can provide both," Max offers.

"No," Dorian says. He had a crush on Max when they were fourteen, and though that's long since died, sex would be the end of their friendship. Max would consider it merely a brief diversion, equivalent to providing pizza and violent TV shows, and Dorian would never be able to do the same, not after twenty years of friendship. "At this point, tonight's options are fuck Bull, think about my parents, or get myself blind drunk and go to my father's funeral with a hangover. You can't pretend that's a hard choice."

"I still can't believe you fucked someone named Bull," Max says, dodging the question.

"You keep saying that, and I have a shocking revelation for you: it's not some magic phrase that will change reality just because you said it the correct number of times." Dorian takes a deep breath and stomps his temper back down. "Besides, it's not like he had much control over what his parents named him."

"That excuse only works until you're eighteen, at which point you can change your name to whatever you want."

"Yes, fine, all right. I'm still calling him."

Max sighs deeply. "You're going to call him no matter what I say, aren't you?"

"I'm an attorney, so I'm not fond of unequivocal statements, but...yeah, probably."

"You're crazy," Max says. "I love you, but you're crazy."

"Would it make you feel better if I invited him over to my place?"

"Since when do you let anyone in your house?" Max says with cheerful scorn. "I'm pretty sure I'm the only person I know who's ever seen your living room, much less your bedroom."

Not entirely true--Rilienus saw plenty of both--but since Max's strategy for dealing with Rilienus is to pretend the man doesn't exist anymore, and Dorian doesn't actually want to talk about him, he lets Max's comment stand.

"I'm hanging up on you now," he says to Max, and does nothing of the sort.

"Give me his address at least, so I know where to send the cops if you don't show up for work on Monday."

"I'm inviting him to my place," Dorian says, though that hadn't originally been the plan. It's not as if Bull isn't already waist-deep in Dorian's business. The thought of him coming over doesn't stir up the usual resentment and anxiety Dorian feels when someone else is in his house.

"Call me after he leaves, then," Max says, "and let me know you're not dead."

"If he wanted to kill me, he already had his chance. Chances." Dorian still hasn't given any of the details of what happened with Bull prior to his mother's phone call, and he hurries on before Max can ask any awkward questions. "Hell, he could have killed me for subjecting him to my family, and no jury in the world would have convicted him."

"Call me anyway," Max says, and hangs up.

Before he loses his nerve, Dorian finds Bull's number in his contacts and calls it, finger shaking just a little. The phone rings twice before Bull says, "H'lo?"

There's a fair amount of noise in the background, like Bull might be at a club. The anxiety spikes: if Bull's out, then he's probably not interested in hearing from a guy with so many issues he might as well have subscriptions.

"It's Dorian," he says, then winces at his own lack of social grace.

"I know," Bull says, and waits. His voice isn't exactly clipped, just very business-like.

"It's been a long week," Dorian says, by way of apology for his silence.

"I can imagine," Bull says, still sounding like he's someone Dorian called from work, and Dorian's resolve crumbles.

"Sorry, you're probably busy-

"Hey," Bull says, and his voice has softened. "Sorry, I forgot you don't know me. People tell me I've got the world's worst phone manners."

 _I forgot you don't know me._ And there's as good a summary as any for their relationship. They skipped all the intermediate steps that usually precede accompanying someone to the hospital to deal with their father's body, and Dorian has to remind himself that the intimacy created there isn't real. He can't assume he knows Bull, and he can't assume Bull's spent the last week thinking about him the way he's been thinking about Bull.

"You still there?" Bull asks, and Dorian realizes he's been quiet a while.

"I'm here," Dorian says. "You said I should give you a call. If I wanted a do-over on last weekend."

"There are definitely parts of last weekend I wouldn't mind doing again," Bull says, voice low.

If Dorian blocks off pretty much the entire rest of that day, the memory of Bull fucking him is definitely worth a replay. He clears his throat. "So, yes. If you're interested, and I'm interested...." He trails off meaningfully.

"I'll be at work until eight, and I have to be back here at five tomorrow morning," Bull says apologetically. "But we could grab some coffee or something tonight, if you want. Talk a little bit."

The tentativeness in his voice actually makes Dorian feel a little better, less like he's the only one with a stake in this game. Then he processes the rest of what Bull said. "You're at work."

"Right now? Yeah."

"Shit, I'm sorry." Caught by his brain's defaults, because most white-collar jobs don't require people to be at work at seven-thirty on a Friday evening. How embarrassing. "I hope I'm not going to get you in trouble."

"Not likely to be an issue," Bull says, "seeing as I'm the boss. Still, I do need to keep an eye on the minions. There's a coffee shop a block over from me, so if you want to meet me here in thirty minutes or so, we can walk over. I'll text you the address."

After they hang up, Dorian sits for a minute with his phone in his hand and just breathes. The parking lot is now completely empty but for the row of hearses at the back, and it's soothing to be separated from every other human being for a little while. No expectations weighing on him, no eyes judging him for every slip and fault. He turns on the car long enough to roll the windows down, then just sits in the warm darkness while he waits for Bull to text him.

It's less than two minutes before his phone buzzes. The text consists of nothing but an address that his phone tells him is twenty minutes away. No time to go home and change, he realizes, and he came straight to the rehearsal from work. He's way over-dressed for coffee, but there's nothing he can do about it now.

Even without hurrying, he's there a couple minutes before eight, and he finds himself sitting in yet another parking lot. This one is far from empty, and the gym bearing the indicated street number is busy despite the hour. Or maybe this is the prime time for gyms? Dorian wouldn't know. He runs, but he has his own treadmill at home for those rare days when the weather is too shitty to run outside, and he's never given much thought to a gym membership.

Unsure whether Bull actually wants him to come inside, he sends a quick text: _I'm here._

Before he's even put the phone down, he gets a reply: _Where? Don't see you._

 _Parking lot,_ he answers.

_Come in, need a couple minutes._

Which is so unequivocal even Dorian can't read a hidden meaning into it, so he shrugs and gets out of the car. As he shuts the door, he catches sight of his reflection in the car window, and realizes that he's even more over-dressed for going in to a gym than he is for coffee. He takes off his jacket and tie, and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows before giving himself another critical once-over in the distorted mirror of the window. Acceptable, especially once he pulls his shoulders back and puts on his work face. Confidence is one of the things he can fake with the best of them.

Most of the way across the parking lot, he pauses and looks up, one eyebrow rising as he reads the name: The Iron Bull. Together with some of the things Bull's said, not to mention the logo on the travel mug Bull handed him last week, Dorian begins to suspect that Bull does a lot more than just work here.

Inside, it's bright and loud: treadmills and bikes whirring, weights clanking, people talking, music playing. After the parking lot's silence and the hushed reverence of the rehearsal, it's almost an assault, and his stride falters briefly in the doorway. No one is looking at him, thank god, and he's back in control by the time he gets to the counter to the right of the door.

The blond woman behind it looks up as he gets closer. "Can I help you?" She has a truly impressive set of tattoos on her face, and Dorian's eyes follow the curving lines with interest.

"I'm looking for Bull," he says, working hard not to make it a question.

"Out in a sec!" Bull calls from somewhere in the back.

The woman shrugs. "He'll be out in a second," she says with a straight face.

"Thanks," Dorian says, matching her tone. He jams his hands in his pockets to keep from straightening the stack of flyers closest to him. "Is there somewhere I can sit?"

"He can come on back, Dalish," Bull says, and the woman shrugs again, lifting up one section of the counter.

"Through there," she says, and Dorian follows her pointing finger to a tiny office barely large enough for a desk, one visitor's chair, two filing cabinets, and the stacks upon stacks of paper that appear to be staging a coup. The small space makes Bull look even bigger, an effect heightened by Dorian's own faulty memory, which had scaled him back down to something a little closer to average in the intervening week.

Bull is hunched over a computer, typing something with a frown of intense concentration. "Just a second," he mutters, and it's not clear if the words are aimed at Dorian or at whatever he's working on.

Dorian leans against the door frame and watches him. He types quickly, fingers flicking over the keyboard with only occasional resort to the backspace key, and while typing is not something Dorian's ever considered particularly arousing, he can't help but remember those fingers working his cock.

For a second, he's too warm, which is of course when Bull looks up. There's an answering flash of heat in Bull's eye before he looks back at the computer screen. "Have a seat, I just need to finish this."

"I've been sitting all day," Dorian says, "I'm good for now." Besides, if he starts across the office, he's not sure he could stop. Rather than sit in the visitor's chair, he could keep right on going, kneel down where no one could see him and suck Bull's cock. Or close the door and get Bull to fuck him over the desk while several dozen people continue about their business, in easy hearing distance of any loud noise.

Bull glances at him again, and one corner of his mouth curls up as if he can hear what Dorian is thinking. "Not today," he says, too quietly for the woman still at the counter to hear.

The words, and their implication, go straight to Dorian's gut, and he sucks in a quick breath, scrambling for the control that he lost somewhere between the front counter and this office. It's not nearly as easy as it should be.


	6. Silence Gets Us Nowhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sit here locked inside my head  
> Remembering everything you said  
> The silence gets us nowhere!  
> Gets us nowhere way too fast!
> 
> The silence is what kills me  
> I need someone here to help me
> 
> Staind, "For You"
> 
> ******************************
> 
> I love you guys. I promise I will write you desk sex, though not in this chapter (or the next couple).
> 
> And speaking of this chapter...it got a little weird on me. I was trying to balance Bull as he is in the game, where there's no real negotiation beyond the safeword, with my own ideas of what Bull in a modern setting would see as his responsibility to someone who's clearly as ignorant of D/s safety as Dorian is, while also setting up some things for later. I really hope it worked.

 

The coffee shop is dim and crowded, and the smell makes Dorian's stomach growl. Staring at the display of pastries in the case, he suddenly realizes how long it's been since lunch and orders a ham and cheese croissant to go with his coffee. He can practically feel his arteries hardening, but he can also feel a headache building, now that he pays attention to it.

Heart-attack-on-a-plate it is, then.

Bull sticks with coffee, and they loiter by one of the windows until a pair of armchairs in the back corner opens up. Setting his plate on the arm of his chair, Dorian is intensely aware of Bull's knee brushing against his, and then even more aware of its absence when Bull shifts position.

"How long have you been running the gym?" he asks, because he really doesn't need any uncomfortable silences right now.

"A little over a year."

"It looks like it's doing well."

"It is," Bull says, and he beams like a proud father. "I know some people who know some people, and we got a write-up in _Men's Health_ the first month we were open. Gave us a good start."

"I should think so," Dorian says, relaxing a little. "Had you worked at a gym before?"

"Nah, but I spent a lot of years getting people into shape, even when they didn't think they could do it."

"Oh?"

"I was in the army. Enlisted on my eighteenth birthday, and let them tell me what to do for twenty-two years. I loved it, but, well, things change." He doesn't exactly look unhappy, but his face closes off a little, and it's such a stark contrast to his usual expressiveness that Dorian reaches out to touch his knee.

Only after he's done it does he actually stop to think about whether the gesture would be welcome. There it is again, that false intimacy that makes everything so strange between them. Before he can pull his hand back, though, Bull covers it with his own, thumb stroking along his knuckles.

"You miss it," Dorian says.

"Yeah." Bull touches the patch over his eye. "But this is kind of a deal breaker."

"How long ago?" Normally he wouldn't pry, but since they're talking about it anyway, he hopes it's all right.

"Two years," Bull says, and though he still doesn't look happy, he also doesn't look as though the question has offended him. "So I've still spent more of my life in the army than out of it, and it takes a little getting used to. The gym...well, starting a business is pretty much an obsession rather than a job, so it kept me busy, and now it's a routine."

"Routine is good?" Dorian asks.

"For the most part. I like knowing where I'm supposed to be, and when I'm supposed to be there, and what I'm supposed to do when I get there." He smiles. "The army's good for that."

"I'll bet," Dorian says. His brain skips ahead by several conversational stepping stones, and he says without thinking, "Your...ahhh...toy box didn't give me the impression that routine was really your thing."

If he could take the words back, he would. _Brilliant,_ he thinks. _Let's turn a serious conversation about a life-altering injury into a conversation about sex._

But Bull chuckles. "That's actually one of the things I wanted to talk to you about."

Dorian cocks his head, puzzled. "How so?"

"We kind of skipped a few steps last week, and if what we did is something you want to do again, we need to talk. I mean, if you just want to dabble your toes in, no problem, but there's a lot of stuff that's off-limits if you want to treat it as a game."

"Treat what as a game?" Dorian asks, because it's the only thing he can say without stuttering. A quick glance around shows they're the only ones in this corner of the coffee shop, which is probably why Bull chose it in the first place.

Bull moves Dorian's hand to the arm of his chair, squeezing it once before releasing it. They're no longer touching anywhere, and Bull has tilted his body so there's no chance of accidental contact. "You've never done anything like that, have you?"

Dorian hears the question, but he's too distracted by trying to read Bull's body language to answer it.

"Hey," Bull says, and Dorian looks up from staring at his own hand. "I like touching you, I like you touching me, but we need to have a serious conversation, and I can't do that with your hand on me. Anywhere."

Most of Dorian's tension eases off, and he tamps down a grin into a more sedate smile. "I'll try to keep my hands to myself."

"For now, anyway," Bull says with a wink, which is a decidedly odd expression from a man with one eye. "Right now, we need to talk about what you can do with those hands, and what I can do with mine."

"I can do a lot of things," Dorian murmurs, and wins an outright laugh from Bull.

"So can I, but I meant more like what I'm allowed to do, not what I'm physically capable of doing." He's back to serious, now. " _Have_ you ever done anything like that?"

Dorian shakes his head. "Ties, once. As in neckties. And really, his knots were shit, so I could have slipped out of them at any point." He squints at Bull. "But you already guessed that."

"The look on your face when I got out the cuffs was pretty much a giveaway. And even before that, your 'Do whatever you want and I'll say stop if I don't like it' would have told me." Bull catches his gaze and holds it. "Whatever happens between the two of us, do me a favor."

"What?" Dorian asks warily, half his brain hung on that word "us."

"Don't _ever_ say that to anyone else. Especially not right before you let them tie you up."

"I'm not sure I see why it matters," Dorian says, trying to sound inquisitive rather than defensive. "Once I'm tied up, you could do whatever you wanted anyway. No safeword in the world could stop you."

Bull tilts his head in acknowledgement. "And there are assholes out there who take advantage of that, but I'm not talking about them." He looks past Dorian's ear, like he's groping for the words. "If you don't set the boundaries ahead of time, how can I know where they're at?"

"Because I tell you when you cross them?"

"Assuming you do. People can get...suggestible. Get too into the scene and say yes to things they'd normally veto in a second, or just not say no, then when they're back in their regular headspace, they're pissed or hurt or scared because it's not a line they wanted to cross."

Dorian nods, a little reluctantly and more than a little puzzled, though he tries to keep both hidden. He's gotten carried away by sex occasionally--a blowjob in an alley sounds naughty and fun until it's time to pick the gravel from his bruised knees--and he knows he's not alone in this. That's always seemed like one of the standard risks of having sex, not something that needs this much discussion, but it's clearly important to Bull, and Dorian doesn't want to sound patronizing or ignorant, so he just says, "That makes sense."

Bull peers into his eyes as if looking for something, and Dorian doesn't look away. He wasn't lying: it _does_ make sense, even if he thinks it's not really something that needs to be spelled out so explicitly. Maybe Bull's had a bad experience with that in the past? Someone who tried to retroactively turn a yes into a no after they got carried away? For someone who looks like Bull, that could go very badly, and it makes Dorian angry to think about it. So he doesn't think about it, just tries to make sure his face says that he understands, and eventually Bull leans back, satisfied.

"So tell me where the lines are," Bull says, which is so open-ended that Dorian's mind goes blank.

"I don't know," he says, his thoughts going in too many directions at once. "I never really thought of myself as having any."

"Everybody's got them," Bull says patiently. "I'm guessing you don't want to be pissed on."

Dorian makes a face before he can stop himself. "God no, nothing like that."

Bull smiles, and for a second, Dorian thinks he's going to be required to spell out what "nothing like that" means, but Bull just says, "Exactly. So there's a couple lines right there. I already know you're okay with being tied up. Can I use blindfolds? Gags?"

"I...guess?"

This time, Bull doesn't drop it. "Tell me what that means. Is that 'no' but you don't want to say so?"

"It's just...I just...it's not no!" Dorian says, frustration making him louder than he meant to be. A couple head turns in their direction, and he sinks down in his chair, embarrassed.

"Hey," Bull says. "We can drop it if you want. Not do anything more than what we've already done. I'm fine with that."

But Dorian is curious despite his embarrassment. "Sorry," he says, more quietly. "I'm just not used to talking about sex, not like this. I mean, I already gave you the outer limit. Can't we just take everything else as read?"

Bull looks like he's holding back a laugh. "It doesn't work like that, where everything's ranked in neat little lines, and if you're okay with this, then by default you've gotta also be okay with that. I've known people who want things that are over your lines, but would run screaming if I came near them with a pair of cuffs."

Which Dorian could have figured out for himself, if this whole conversation didn't have him turned upside down. "Sorry," he says again.

"Don't worry about it," Bull says. "But it does mean you've got to tell me what you like. Hell, plenty of people write this shit down ahead of time."

Dorian blinks. "Ah...no. Thank you."

"I thought lawyers were hot to have everything in writing," Bull teases.

"Not everything, not for lawyers my age," Dorian says. "We grew up in the age of e-discovery, which is a word that strikes fear into our withered black hearts. More people have gotten in more trouble for the stupid shit they put in email than you would ever believe. At least in the world of corporate law."

"Okay, but that only makes it more important that you talk to me. Starting with explaining what 'not no' means to you."

Dorian flails, and in his head, he can almost hear Max calling him "bright boy" in that obnoxious tone. "It means not no," he says at last, with a shrug. "It's not something that excites me, but it doesn't bother me, either."

"Fair enough," Bull says. He points at Dorian's forgotten dinner, still untouched. "And eat, while we're at it."

Picking up the plate, Dorian takes a huge bite of his croissant, wrinkling his nose at Bull while he does it. As much as he suspects Bull is reading him, the man himself isn't as opaque as he thinks he is. His apparent need to feed people--or at least, to feed Dorian--is maybe more telling than he realizes.

As he eats, Bull quizzes him about the kinds of things Dorian doesn't usually think about when he's got this many clothes on, and certainly doesn't usually talk about. It's almost fun, a weird sort of game, and after a while, it occurs to Dorian that he's allowed to ask the same questions in return. He's getting into it, maybe even a little turned on, when Bull asks, "Dirty talk?" and Dorian says laughingly, "Yes _please_ ," and Bull follows immediately with, "Name calling?"

That brings him up short, and while he thinks he knows what Bull means, he repeats the words anyway. "Name calling?"

"Name calling," Bull says, then adds casually, "Bitch, whore, slut, that kind of thing."

"No." He says it too fast and too sharply, but he can't stop himself.

The memory comes out of nowhere, more immediate than anything that old has a right to be. He's fourteen, sitting on a hard wooden chair while a kind, patient voice explains why he's not fit to be around "normal" people, and as much as he hates that voice and everything it says, he hates the silence that will follow even more, the silence that will go on for hours and hours as he sits alone in this six by six cell. For one hour every day, he huddles in his chair while they lecture him on all the ways in which he's sinful, on how the contamination inside him must be purged. He spends the other twenty-three hours wanting them to come back, because at least then he gets to hear a voice besides his own.

It's not the only time in the last sixteen years he's remembered that. Sometimes when Dorian would try to initiate sex but Rilienus wasn't in the mood, Rilienus would call him slut in that way that was impossible to challenge. If confronted, he would simply retreat behind a shield of "I was only kidding, Dorian, don't take everything so seriously." It got to the point where Rilienus didn't even need to say the word, only put on the superior expression that went with it, to call up that memory in Dorian's head and kill any desire to be touched by anyone.

The croissant is a greasy lump in his stomach, and he almost vomits, swallowing hard against the saliva flooding his mouth. Bull is watching him with a concerned frown, and Dorian drains the last of his cold coffee to hide his face for a second. "No name calling," he says in an almost-normal voice.

He might sound a bit more normal if he hadn't stood up to say it, though at least he wasn't too loud this time.

"Yeah," Bull says. "I was kinda getting the idea that might be a no for you."

His hand on Dorian's is a surprise, and Dorian looks at him without meaning to. It's a careful touch, just the tips of his fingers curling around the tips of Dorian's, but there's a faint pull to it. So faint Dorian could easily ignore it, if he wants to.

He does and he doesn't, and he ends up just standing there, looking down at Bull. The pull doesn't increase or decrease, undemanding but very much there. In the end, it's the lack of force that makes it possible for him to move, to let that hand tug him down to sit in Bull's lap, his legs over one arm of the chair. From elsewhere in the coffee shop, it probably looks disgustingly cute, but for once Dorian doesn't care.

"Somebody use those words against you?" Bull asks quietly. His cheek rests against the top of Dorian's head, and from here, Dorian can smell his soap. The memory of waking in Bull's bed, it turns out, is a pretty good antidote for other, less pleasant memories.

"Yes," Dorian whispers. After a little longer, he sighs. "I'm not usually this much of an emotional train wreck, you know."

"It's been a long week," Bull says. "You're allowed to be tired. And maybe tonight wasn't the best time for this conversation." He rubs his face against Dorian's hair, chin digging in slightly. "Sorry."

"Not your fault," Dorian says. "Honestly, I didn't even know that was a button until you asked about it." Then he laughs weakly. "But I haven't thought about my parents at all in the last hour, so that's a plus."

"Here to help," Bull says, and it sounds like he's smiling.

Dorian feels like he's sinking into Bull's warmth, and he doesn't fight it, even when his mouth moves without permission from his brain. "The rehearsal was tonight."

"Rehearsal?"

"Yes, a funeral so elaborate it needs a rehearsal." Dorian snorts. "Max wanted to know if there would be professional mourners."

Bull chuckles. "And will there be?"

"No. Which means no one will cry at all, given that it's my family." He turns his head a little, just to catch Bull's smell again. "Tomorrow will likely be my own personal 'day that will live in infamy'."

"Sounds like a barrel of laughs."

"At least Mae will be there, so there's a decent chance I won't be arrested for killing my mother at my father's funeral." He closes his eyes. In about two more minutes he's going to be embarrassed for falling apart on Bull _again_ , but right now, that feeling of safety has left him almost sleepy.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Bull asks, and Dorian sits up so fast he knocks his head against Bull's chin.

"I wasn't trying to hint at you," he says, appalled now as he realizes that's exactly what it would sound like. "Seriously. I'll be fine."

Bull works his jaw, fingers prodding his chin where Dorian hit it. "I didn't think you were hinting, just felt like offering anyway." He smiles. "Hell, your family already thinks I'm your boyfriend, and what kind of boyfriend wouldn't be there?"

Dorian stares at him. "Are you a masochist? Nobody volunteers to spend time with my mother. _I_ don't want to spend time with her."

"Not a masochist," Bull says. "But I'd hate for people to think I was the kind of guy who'd skip his boyfriend's father's funeral." He's smiling a little, so Dorian has to assume he's joking, and he's surprised by his own disappointment. Having Bull there would have been-

Well, it doesn't matter. He'll have Mae.

He and Mae will have _each other_. Which has been the story of his life, really.

"I wasn't kidding," Bull says. "Okay, I was kidding about the reason, but not kidding that I'll come with, if you want."

"Why?" Dorian asks, more plaintively than he meant to.

"Because I like you," Bull says. "And I want to help people I like."

"You barely know me," Dorian points out, feeling like a bit of an ass but too baffled to think of a more tactful way to say it. "You met me a week ago, and out of that week, we've actually been in each other's company less than twenty-four hours."

"So?" Bull asks, and Dorian doesn't have an answer for that. "If you don't want me to come, that's okay. Won't hurt my feelings. But I wouldn't've offered if I didn't mean it."

The yes sticks in Dorian's throat. It's not a long word, but it is a hard one, at least in this case.

"Do you want me to come?" Bull asks.

Dorian still can't speak, but he manages a nod.

"Okay," Bull says. "What time?"

"Two," Dorian croaks. He clears his throat. "I'll send you the address. It'll probably last a couple hours."

"I'll have to go back to the gym after," Bull says apologetically, as if Dorian's going to complain about that. Christ.

"Not a problem," he says. " _Really_."

They're both quiet a while, and Dorian realizes that somehow his head has ended up tucked under Bull's chin again. It's too much effort to move away, especially since he doesn’t actually want to.

"Thank you," he says instead.

"No problem," Bull says. He shifts Dorian's weight a little, and murmurs, without letting go, "You know, I don't remember your ass being this bony last week."

Dorian snorts out a laugh. "Last week you were distracted. I'm very good at that."

"You are," Bull agrees fervently. "Very good."

Made bolder by the warmth in Bull's voice, Dorian asks, "How late will you be at the gym tomorrow night?"

"Eight." Bull turns his head so he can nudge Dorian's cheek with his nose, and Dorian lifts his own head obligingly. The kiss is soft, almost chaste, until a tiny flick of Bull's tongue shocks heat through Dorian's body. "You want to come over about nine?"

"Yes," Dorian says, voice husky.

"Good," Bull says. "I'd like that." The hand not around Dorian's shoulder slides up and around, palm pressing firmly through his shirt. To anyone else, it would look almost sweet, Bull's hand spread across his chest, but there's enough pressure to drive the nipple ring lightly into Dorian's skin. "I'd like that a lot."

Bull makes no mention of their earlier conversation, and it's impossible to say whether anything they talked about tonight will make a reappearance tomorrow. Dorian's idly curious, but too tired to ask. He's warm inside and out, curled against Bull's chest, hovering just this side of arousal without expecting--or wanting--to tip over that edge.

Eventually one of the coffee shop's employees begins pointedly sweeping around their chair, and they disentangle themselves reluctantly. At least, Dorian is reluctant, and he doesn't think it's his imagination that Bull is a little slow to release him.

The air outside is cool after the warmth of the coffee shop, particularly the warmth of the coffee shop while sitting on the man-shaped heater that is Bull. The chill clears a few of the cobwebs from Dorian's head, and he remembers his earlier words to Max.

"You know," he says, fiddling with his keys. "You could come over to my place tomorrow night. If you want to." Christ, he's not usually this uncertain with guys, but everything has been so ass-backward with Bull. And now that the words are out, the thought of having Bull in his house makes him nervous in more ways than one, some pleasant and some not.

"That works for me," Bull says, as if it's all the same to him. "So two o'clock at the church, and nine o'clock at your place."

"Two and nine," Dorian says. "I'll text you the address. Addresses."

"Great," Bull says.

There's an awkward silence before Dorian blurts out, "You could bring stuff with you."

There's an awkward silence after, too, and he adds lamely, "Tomorrow night, I mean."

"Stuff?" Bull asks. "Like cuffs?"

"That, too," Dorian says, equal parts anticipation and nervousness running through him at the thought. It's distracting enough to keep him from stumbling as he says, "But I was thinking more of a toothbrush and a change of clothes." If he's going to let someone into his house, he's going to fucking well do it.

"Oh," Bull says. He's surprised, but Dorian can't tell if it's the good kind or the bad kind.

"Only if you want to," Dorian adds hastily. "The other offer's still open, even if you don't want to stay."

"I can bring 'stuff'," Bull says, surprise replaced by amusement. "Both kinds."

"Great," Dorian says, trying not to sound as if he's strangling, and he escapes to his car before he can put his foot in his mouth. Again.

Once there, he texts Max a brief, _I'm on my way home_ , then turns the car on. He hasn't even put the car in reverse when his phone buzzes with Max's response: _That didn't take very long._

Dorian unlocks the screen and types, _He has to be at work early tomorrow. We just got coffee and talked._

He can almost hear Max's answering snort. _I could have given you that._

For a second, Dorian imagines having with Max the conversation he just had with Bull, and it makes him laugh, but all he types back is, _I'll keep you in mind._ He hesitates, then figures what the hell. _He's coming over tomorrow night, after he gets off work. And he's going with me to the funeral._

The pause that follows is so long, Dorian adds, _Did you just have a heart attack or something?_

 _Damn near_ , comes back quickly, but Dorian can see the three little dots flashing, so he waits rather than give Max a smart-ass answer.

The rest of Max's commentary follows soon enough. _You need to run away from this guy, because he's clearly INSANE. Nobody volunteers to go near your family after the first time._

Dorian doesn't disagree, even as he types, _I gave him an out. He said he wanted to go._ Which has to count as the closest thing to a miracle Dorian's ever seen in his life.

 _INSANE_ , Max sends again, and the three dots don't flash, so he clearly considers that the end of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And hey, look at that. I've posted 200,000 words on AO3. Huh. And (according to my spreadsheet) written 275,000+. Again...huh.


	7. How Sweet the Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from "Amazing Grace", about the only funeral hymn I don't hate.

On Saturday morning, Dorian sleeps fitfully and wakes early, too wound up to go back to sleep. He tries not to think about anything in particular, just goes for a long run and then jerks off in the shower, burying himself in the pure physicality of both as much as he can. His thoughts are a constant, fretting background hum, but that's not new, and he's had plenty of practice at ignoring them.

That control slips only once, when he's standing in his bedroom, dressed for the funeral and knotting his tie. A glance in the mirror to check whether he's got it straight, and Dorian's struck by an urge he hasn't felt in a long time: the urge to destroy anything and everything he can lay hands on.

He can imagine taking scissors to his suit, cutting it into expensive bespoke ribbons, then moving on to shirt and tie and shoes. The small table beside his bed is light enough he could pick it up but sturdy enough to do damage. He could break both the mirror and the windows with it, and probably also the mirrors and glass shower walls in the bathroom before it fell apart. There's a hammer downstairs; not a big one, but between its claw and his foot, he could-

He blinks and puts all that away, adjusting the knot on his tie with steady hands. _Not helpful_ , he reminds himself. As he draws in a deep breath through his nose, he puts his shoulders back and his chin up, closing out everyone else in the world and whatever judgments they might be rendering.

Bull's waiting for him in the church parking lot, leaning against his car and tapping away at his phone with a frown, a frown that changes to a pleased smile when he sees Dorian. That smile makes Dorian feel a little more in control, turning his confident act into something a little less like an act, and he smiles back.

"Hey," Bull says, lowering his phone as he steps forward to kiss Dorian on the cheek. That's a surprise, and Dorian barely stops himself from stiffening. He return kiss is poorly timed, connecting with Bull's chin instead of his cheek, but Bull doesn't seem to notice.

"Everything all right?" Dorian asks, pointing with his chin at the phone.

"Oh, yeah. Just a minor issue, nothing that can't wait 'til I get back." He slips the phone into his pocket and changes the subject. "Anything in particular I need to know?"

"Don't let me kill anyone?" Dorian says, only half joking.

"That I can do." He smiles down, and that's when Dorian realizes that he never moved away after that kiss, that they're still far closer than a normal conversation requires. All the instincts driven into him for the first sixteen years of his life yell at him to back up, but he holds his ground and then some, laying his hand on Bull's chest in a small act of defiance.

"We should go in," Dorian says, not in any hurry. It's cool for May, and even standing in the sun in his dark suit, he's much more comfortable out here than he will be in the church.

Bull steps back, catching Dorian's hand and turning it over, his thumb pushing back the sleeve of Dorian's suit and the cuff of his shirt so Bull can kiss the inside of his wrist once, lightly. "You smell good," he murmurs.

Before Dorian can respond, Bull has twisted their fingers together and turned toward the church's main entrance, gesturing broadly. "Lay on, MacDuff."

"And damned be him that first cries 'Hold, enough!'" Dorian adds, then looks at Bull, momentarily diverted. "Most people say 'Lead on, MacDuff.'"

"Most people are wrong," Bull says with a smile, and Dorian smiles back.

The smile doesn't last past the church's front doors and the cool look Aquinea gives them both. Her eyes scan Bull from head to foot, and Dorian can see the faint sneer as she takes in his cheap suit. Not that it's necessarily a bad suit, and it fits him well enough for his size, but it certainly wasn't made by H. Huntsman or William Fioravanti. Only years of practice keep Dorian from flushing in anger, or snapping at her, "It isn't actually a moral failing if he can't afford to buy suits from Leonard Logsdail."

"Dorian," she greets him with a tilt of her head. "And Mr. Hassrad. We didn't expect you to make it."

Apparently impervious to the chill, Bull gives her an easy nod. "Where else would I be?" he asks, and somehow the words are friendly rather than confrontational.

Dorian can actually watch his mother discard "Anywhere else" as a response.

Before she can settle on something suitable, Bull adds earnestly, "I'm sorry for your loss." He sounds completely sincere, too, and Dorian has to stop himself from turning to stare.

It takes his mother aback, too, though it's unlikely anyone but Dorian can tell. "Thank you," she says, after a fractional hesitation. "Unfortunately, as we weren't expecting you, you'll have to sit in the back row, but-"

"He sits with me, or I leave," Dorian says, matching her icy calm with his own. Between her and his father, he learned from the best, and he doesn't blink when she looks at him. "So either I sit in the back, or he sits in the front. It's your choice, Mother."

She purses her lips, debating how far she can push him, and she must come to the correct conclusion, because she says, "Then please show your friend to the front."

Her tone implies that she's granting a concession to an overwrought toddler because she's too civilized to make a scene in a public place, but Dorian doesn't care. He gives her a curt nod before striding down the aisle with Bull in his wake. The front row is almost completely empty right now, and Dorian takes the end farthest from the aisle, pretending it's because he won't be getting up to speak, unlike most of the others who'll be sitting in this row.

He tries to leave Bull the endmost seat, but Bull outmaneuvers him, and Dorian doesn't fight him. It's not as if he actually wants to be able to see his family, or sit beside any of them except Mae, who isn't a close enough relation to be in this row anyway.

There's still twenty minutes before the ceremony starts, and Dorian starts counting the seconds in his head to drown out the silence. He used to pass the time like this a lot, because whether it was six hundred or six thousand seconds, at least he always knew exactly how much longer he had to wait. And after his time at "camp", the counting had been a way to combat the silence, a tactic no one could stop because no one could tell he was doing it.

"So," Bull says, leaning close enough to whisper and disrupting Dorian's count. "I'm guessing the average price of a suit dropped by five hundred dollars when I walked in."

Dorian keeps his face calm even as he cringes, remembering his mother's look. "I'm so sorry. I should have warned you, but I didn't think about it." There are those assumptions again, that of course everyone has a bespoke suit hanging in their closet. Christ, he's as bad as she is.

"It's okay," Bull says, and Dorian glances at him. "Are you embarrassed by me and my cheap suit?" He doesn't look particularly concerned; it's as if the question is merely academic.

"No," Dorian says, as forcefully as he can while whispering. "I'm embarrassed by _her_ , not by you."

"Then why do I care what she thinks?" Bull asks, shrugging one massive shoulder. The suit pulls against the motion, a little too small though Dorian's sure it was the largest one the store had. "It's no skin off my nose if she wants to think she's better than me. I don't have to agree with her, or let her drag me down to her level."

Bull's courteous, sincere "I'm sorry for your loss" echoes in Dorian's head. "I don't know how you could be polite to her."

"I went to a lot of funerals when I was in the army," Bull says calmly, and Dorian looks at him from the corner of one eye again. "Grief does funny things to people, and it's easier on everybody if I just let it roll off me. Besides, I can dislike her and still be sorry she lost her husband."

"I'm having a hard time with that," Dorian admits.

"I know," Bull says with a small smile. "It's a lot easier for me, without all the history messing me up."

And Bull doesn't even know the half of it. Not that Dorian's prepared to discuss it, not now and possibly not ever. He's tried to put all of that behind him, and dragging it back up with Bull is not part of the plan, despite--or maybe because of--his slip last night in the coffee shop.

They sit in silence then, but it's not as painful as it was before, and when the ceremony starts, Dorian's able to follow along without choking on the responses. Sitting or standing, some part of Bull is always touching him: shoulder, knee, the back of one hand, even just his foot. It's nothing anyone else would notice, nothing that would feed into the anxious loop in the back of Dorian's head, but it's too constant to be accidental, and it shores up his calm whenever he starts to falter.

As they stand for the closing hymn and the first notes of "Amazing Grace" rise into the air, Dorian can't stop himself shooting another glance at Bull. He doesn't know what he did to deserve this particular grace, but he hopes like hell he can pay it back.

_Because he needs help from someone who can't make it through a funeral without the emotional support of a virtual stranger?_

Dorian shoves that away. There has to be something, and given enough time, he can figure it out.

The service is finished, but the pomp and circumstance are far from over: there's still the burial to get through, and after the burial, the wake. Bull's right there through all of it, mostly silent but with an occasional aside that makes Dorian smile despite himself. Other than those brief moments when Bull leans down to whisper in his ear, the day is a blur of carefully sympathetic faces and gentle handshakes from people Dorian hasn't seen in a decade. His mother, of course, accepts condolences with the same gracious reserve she used to display in the receiving line at dinner parties.

He extricates himself and Bull as early as he can, using Bull's need to return to work as an excuse for both of them, never mind that they drove here separately. At the car, Bull gives him another quick kiss and says, "Nine?"

"Nine," Dorian confirms.

"With 'stuff'," Bull says, and Dorian smiles.

That smile fades once Bull's gone and Dorian looks at his watch. It's just past four, which leaves him the better part of five hours to kill. Fortunately, he has a huge stack of work sitting in his office at home, enough to keep him busy long past nine. Once he gets into it, he won't even notice the time passing; he's lost way more than five hours in the past when a particularly interesting problem needed solving. As he drives home, Dorian focuses deliberately on his plan, and on work. He's still focusing on it deliberately when he sits down at his desk and fires up the VPN.

Then he does nothing except blink sightlessly at the screen for the next five minutes, until he realizes what he's doing and snaps himself back to the present. He resets the timer--it's really not fair to bill the client for the time he's spent thinking about his mother--and tries again. After another ten minutes, he resets the clock _again_ \--thinking about Bull is not any more billable than thinking about his mother--and starts back at the beginning.

At six o'clock when the VPN kicks him off for inactivity, he gives up and leans back in his chair to stare at the ceiling rather than at the page he's been staring at for the last thirty minutes. If he's not going to pretend to work, what else is there to kill time? He spends a good ten minutes panicking about what he's going to do for the next three hours, until the absurdity of that penetrates his anxiety and he goes in search of something useful to do.

He changes his clothes more times than he would ever admit to anyone, not even to Max. Or maybe especially not to Max. Jeans or khakis or sweatpants? T-shirt or polo shirt or dress shirt? Socks? Shoes? Underwear? Last night, coming directly from work by way of the rehearsal, it was easy because he had a ready excuse if he seemed over-dressed. This afternoon was likewise easy: funerals had a set dress code, regardless of how he felt about the guest of honor.

There's no dress code now: he can meet Bull at the door naked if he wants to. And while there's a part of him that's tempted, the rest of him cringes at the thought of opening the door to find Max, or the FedEx guy, or some Girl Scout selling cookies. Though maybe it's not cookie season?

 _Come on, Pavus,_ he tells himself. _You didn't put this much thought into what you wore to the interview for partnership._ Of course, his childhood was spent learning the subtle gradations of men's suits, and what to wear to an interview is easy. What to wear to meet the guy who gave him two mind-blowing orgasms and then got dragged into the middle of serious family drama not once but twice? When that guy is coming _here_ , to Dorian's house? That's a lot harder.

Once he gets done dithering about his clothes, he looks around his bedroom for anything else that needs to be done. The sheets were clean two nights ago, but he remakes the bed anyway, because at least it keeps him occupied. There's not a lot of picking up to do, since he's always been fairly neat and Orana comes by on Tuesdays and Thursdays to clean up anything he might have left out. Working eighty hours a week doesn’t given him a lot of time to make messes at home.

He finds a couple of stray glasses by the computer and stuffs them in the dishwasher, then stands in the living room turning in slow circles, panic edging in again. What does his house look like to an outsider? It's one reason he doesn't usually let people come over, because letting others see his house means he has to think about _how_ they see it. If no one but Max ever comes in, then Dorian doesn't have to waste energy on wondering whether his taste in art or furnishings or books is too weird or too normal, too outrageous or too boring.

 _If you're doing it right, he's not going to be looking at the house,_ Dorian tries to tell himself. Normally, sex is one of the few areas where he's confident in his abilities, but Bull has even that turned upside down. Dorian never thought of his sex life as plain vanilla until he saw what Bull had in that box. Now, with too much time and not enough to do, he finds himself questioning how interesting Bull can possibly find him if he's used to partners who actually know what to do all the things in that box. Not that he isn't interested in learning about some of it, but he's still mostly ignorant at the moment. Does Bull even want a lover who needs his hand held the entire way?

The two hours remaining until nine o'clock seem to take three days.

The fifteen minutes between nine and the knock on the door seem to take three _years_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't guess, I promise there will be sex in the next chapter. :) And more talking, but also sex.


	8. Let My Skin Feel the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take these stars from my crown  
> Let the years fall down  
> Lay me out in firelight  
> Let my skin feel the night  
> Fasten me to your side  
> And say it'll be soon  
> You make me so crazy, baby  
> Could swallow the moon
> 
> Jewel Kilcher, "Jupiter"  
> *********************************  
> Because as a chapter title, "in which it turns out that Dorian is terrible at role-play but has fun anyway" is a bit too long. The tags did change again, because I felt like this chapter (and the next one) took the story out of light D/s territory and into just straight up D/s, but y'all should know me and tags by this point. Suggestions on tagging (both tags I should add and tags I should remove) are ALWAYS welcome.

Bull hates being late. Forget cleanliness; his mother considered timeliness as next to godliness, and the army agreed with her whole-heartedly. Between the two, Bull's almost allergic to lateness.

So of course, the one day he actually wants to leave work on time is the one day something goes wrong at two minutes to eight. And of course the problem in question involves a toilet in the ladies' room. The cost of a plumber at eight o'clock on a Saturday night is inspiring, in that it inspires Bull to fix the problem himself rather than shell out that much money. He can fix a damn toilet, no matter how dirty it gets him.

The end result is that it's after eight thirty when he hits his own front door, and the address Dorian texted him is twenty minutes away. He takes the fastest shower in human history and throws "stuff" in a bag as fast as he can grab it while he's still toweling off, putting him back in his car at eight forty-three. He congratulates himself all the way to the interstate, where he realizes the one thing he left behind is his phone. With Dorian's address. The address he didn't bother to memorize because it was on his fucking phone.

Back home, phone in hand, he pauses and forces himself to calm down. He'd given up hoping for Dorian's call by Tuesday evening, and so hearing his voice at all had been a shock. Then last night's conversation and this afternoon's funeral had come complete with their own surprises, not least his own reactions. Yeah, some of it was awkward, and some of it painful, but having Dorian curled on his lap had felt so very right. Leaving aside all jokes about Dorian's bony ass, Bull could happily have stayed there for hours, and he's not used to feeling like that around someone he barely knows.

Dorian's hand on his knee had been more surprising: not only that he wanted to offer comfort, but that he read Bull well enough to know it was needed. Bull can't remember the last time anyone but Krem saw through him that easily, and it took Krem years to learn how. On top of Dorian's unexpected indifference to the sight of his wrecked eye, it's left him feeling completely off balance. Not a great mindset for sex in general, and a downright terrible one if he intends to pull out any of his "stuff." Control. He needs to be in control.

Easier said than done. Last night in the coffee shop wasn't too bad, because he'd been able to concentrate on the conversation. It was too crucial a conversation to skip, and he knew it, and that knowledge helped him keep it together. And at the funeral...well, it was a funeral; he wasn't in any danger there. But now he has Dorian and twelve hours before he needs to be back at work. The thought leaves him feeling almost drunk.

He never meant to let himself get attached in the first place, and getting unattached proved to be pretty much impossible. Dorian's been on his mind a lot, sabotaging last weekend's attempts to find someone else to take Bull's mind off crazy families, and then distracting him at work all week. "I can't stop thinking about you" could be sexy or could be creepy; it's all in the delivery, and right now, Bull knows his delivery definitely wouldn't be sexy.

So as much as it pains him to make himself later, he sets down both phone and car keys on the table by the door and links his fingers together behind his head, breathing deeply with his eye closed. As he breathes, he runs through last night's conversation again, reminding himself first of every yes and not-no Dorian gave him, and then of every no. Some of those were tentative, the kind of no that sounded remarkably like maybe, if Bull had any interest in pushing. Which he doesn't, though it always amazes him how often people try to hide what they do and don't like behind their partner's expectations. Behind what they _think_ are their partner's expectations.

And then there was Dorian's last no or, as Bull thinks of it, No. That was a No with history, something bone-deep and completely inflexible, as far from maybe as it's possible to get, and so far from yes it might as well be on another planet. Whatever's lurking under that No, Bull could step in by accident if he's not in control. A No like that doesn't usually have clear borders: it oozes over into other things at unexpected moments.

So for tonight, at least, he plans to avoid anything that didn't get a clear and unequivocal yes. When Dorian trusts him not to pick at things he was told to leave alone, then they can start to talk about what's on Dorian's not-no list. And maybe someday Dorian will trust him enough to revisit some of the no list under his own power, but Bull is never going to push him.

His heart has stopped beating in his throat by now, and his hands are no longer twitching. He takes one last slow breath and opens his eye. _Now_ he can go.

###

Dorian's house isn't huge, but it's a lot bigger than Bull would have expected for a single guy. Sitting in his car in the driveway staring at it, Bull wonders if he's got roommates. Which would be funny after their conversation at the club, but also kind of awkward.

One way to find out, so Bull grabs his bag and walks up the driveway toward the front door. The porch is plenty big enough for a glider or swing, but it's bare of anything except a mat, perfectly centered on the door. Dorian's not the sociable sort, then. A good sign on the roommate question?

There's only one light on, in what's probably the living room, and the house looks empty, but Bull's barely touched the doorbell before the door is swinging open. Dorian is barefoot, in jeans and a button down shirt and an anxious expression. The shirt's not the same one from last weekend, but it's similar enough that Bull thinks the match is deliberate.

"Hey," he says, smiling. And yeah, he meant to smile, but maybe not quite so broadly. _We're going for sexy, not creepy,_ he reminds himself.

"Hey," Dorian says, and his shoulders relax a little. "I was starting to wonder if I'd been stood up." He's smiling easily, as if the words are a joke, but Bull's seen that mask go on and off too many times to be fooled by it now.

This is why he hates being late. Well, one of many reasons. "Sorry," Bull says. "It figures that the one time I want to leave right at eight, something goes wrong." He's still smiling, his face starting to hurt, but he can't seem to stop. "I was staring at the clock with my keys in my hand at seven fifty-five."

Dorian relaxes a little more and his smile turns genuine. Then he shakes himself and steps to the side. "Sorry, didn't mean to make you stand on the porch. Come on in."

Things get awkward for a minute, edging around each other in the entryway, Dorian eying Bull's bag and Bull trying not to get distracted by Dorian's bare feet. They're feet, and Bull's never been any more interested in feet than in any other part of the human body, but between them and the untucked shirt, Bull can't help but notice how accessible most of Dorian's body is.

"Did you want something to drink?" Dorian asks, and the look in his eyes says, "Say no."

"No, thanks," Bull says, studying him carefully.

Dorian is practically vibrating, his fingers curling and uncurling, and the look he's giving Bull is half challenge, half plea. "That safeword. You said 'red light,' yes?"

Hard to say if Dorian knows how easy he is to read, how many of his emotions are there now that Bull knows how to see them. He can even guess at their source. Last week, looking at Bull's collection, it was clear when Dorian agreed to play that he expected violence; the only question in his mind was how much and whether it would cross his personal line. So Bull gave him the opposite of violence, letting Dorian's surprise and uncertainty hold him every bit as much as the rope. Tonight, that uncertainty is already there, assumptions warring with last week's reality.

"How much do you like those clothes?" Bull asks, keeping his tone casual.

Dorian's eyes widen as he makes the connection immediately. He wets his lips, then chews briefly on the inside of the lower one. At last, he says, "Not that much."

Bull nods slowly, as if considering someone else's argument in a formal debate, and watches the tension coiling tighter inside Dorian. Waiting for the silence to build to the right moment.

Just as Dorian opens his mouth to speak, Bull moves and moves fast, grabbing Dorian by the front of his shirt to slam him back into the wall. That gasp of surprise is exactly what Bull was aiming for. Dorian's hands come up instinctively, pushing Bull away before he realizes what he's doing, and then he hesitates. He's clearly thinking, trying to decide how far he wants to take this.

Before Dorian can think it to death, Bull takes both of his wrists in one hand and pins them to the wall above his head. With his other hand, he grabs the collar of Dorian's shirt and yanks hard, hearing fabric rip and buttons hit the floor. Dorian's head thunks back against the wall, and his body arches out toward Bull.

Denim is a lot harder to rip one-handed, and Bull doesn't bother trying, just jerks hard on Dorian's jeans as he unbuttons them so the waistband digs into Dorian's back. As an added bonus, the move pulls Dorian's groin right up against Bull's thigh, and Dorian grinds against him before Bull shoves him away to finish pulling his pants down over his ass.

Bull pauses for a second to admire his handiwork: Dorian pinned to the wall, shirt ripped open to frame his body, cock already getting hard. One nipple ring is peeking out from the shirt, and Bull flicks it once just to see Dorian writhe against his grip. It's such a nice sight that he shifts Dorian's hands down, holding them between Dorian's back and the wall so he can bend over and suck the nipple into his mouth.

He twists the ring using tongue and teeth, and Dorian cries out. It's probably the loudest noise Bull has heard from him, and it's so startling that he pulls back to check Dorian's face. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are wild, staring down at Bull.

"Don't you dare fucking stop," Dorian hisses at him.

Bull grins and moves to the other nipple, poking the tip of his tongue through the ring as he bites down. "Oh god _yes_ ," Dorian whispers, and his cock twitches against Bull's chest. He's fighting against Bull's hand around his wrists, twisting and pulling as best he can with limited leverage, sweat making him hard to hold. Straightening up, Bull spins him around to shove him face first into the wall, then pushes Dorian's shirt off his shoulders without freeing his arms from the sleeves, twisting the fabric around and around until it's too tight for Dorian to slip free.

One hand keeping the shirt twisted, the other gripping Dorian's upper arm, Bull half carries, half drags him into the living room, careful not to let him trip with his pants shoved down around his thighs. The hardwood floors continue in here, but there's an area rug that will do nicely, and Bull positions Dorian in the center of it before knocking his feet out from under him, letting him fall just hard enough to sting as his knees hit the rug.

A quick check of his face shows he's not objecting, so Bull raises Dorian's bound wrists, lifting them slowly enough that he can bend forward to spare his shoulders. Strappado has its risks, but Dorian doesn't fight against it, just folds himself in half until his cheek is pressed to the floor and his ass is in the air. Keeping his hands high enough to pull without hurting, Bull gets the knife out of his pocket and kneels beside him.

There's a distinctive snick as he unfolds the blade one-handed, and Dorian's eyes widen. His lips form what might be the beginning of the safeword, and Bull waits patiently to see what he does. After a long moment, he says tentatively, "Don't." It's almost a question, and Bull only just manages not to smile.

Dorian tries again, a little more forcefully if still not terribly convincingly, "Don't hurt me."

Bull puts his mouth against Dorian's ear, relaxing the pull on his arms to get close enough, and now he lets himself smile, lets Dorian hear it in his voice. "Then you're gonna want to hold real still," he murmurs. Dorian draws a shuddering breath and nods vehemently, the rug scraping against his cheek.

"Real still," Bull repeats, and straightens up, pulling Dorian's arms high again as he touches the dull edge of the knife to the outside of one hip, where it can't cut or jab when Dorian jerks. Because that's exactly what he does, flinching away from the cold metal. Bull touches him with it again, and again, until the metal warms a little and he stops twitching every time.

If he wanted to, Bull could get Dorian naked in a matter of seconds. Or really, just leave him like this, fuck him with his jeans working like shackles. Maybe another time. For tonight, Bull works slowly and methodically, destroying the jeans one tiny bit at a time, making sure Dorian can feel the dull side of the blade along the backs of his thighs, against the insides of his knees and down his calves. His feet are already bare, so Bull just strokes the knife along the edge of his foot, watching his toes twitch as he fights not to move.

When the jeans are nothing but a pile of scraps, Bull folds up the knife against the small of Dorian's back and tosses it to one side. Dorian's eyes follow it, disappointment and relief both clear on his face, and Bull makes a note for later. There are possibilities in that look, things on Dorian's yes list that Bull had mentally set aside, unsure if Dorian had the control to hold still. Sometimes there's a chasm between what people want and what's safe for them.

But all that's for later. Right now, he concentrates on the warm skin under his hand as he gets Dorian up onto his knees again, tugging down on his bound hands and pushing up against the front of his shoulder. Bull slides his thigh between Dorian's and presses close, his free hand resting on Dorian's hip as he keeps the shirt twisted tight, aware of the tension in every line of the body resting against his.

Dorian is definitely thinking too hard right now, and Bull's not terribly surprised. Given what he does for a living, it would be more surprising if he didn't overthink things. It's not as if the tendency is even necessarily bad during sex, so long as Bull can channel it.

Fantasy, for example.

"Do you know what I thought about last night," he murmurs in Dorian's ear, "when I looked up and you were standing in my office?"

He waits for Dorian's head shake before he goes on. "I thought about telling you to close the door so I could put you up on my desk and suck you off right there." He presses his thigh against Dorian's groin and twists the shirt tighter, enjoying the way Dorian tries to rock against him.

It was right there on Dorian's face last night, that he was thinking along the same lines, but Bull doesn't say so. "I didn't care who might hear, or who might walk in, I just wanted to see you fall apart. I almost asked." Dorian's hair is warm, and Bull buries his nose in it, inhaling deeply. "If I had, if I do next time, would you do that for me?" he asks. "Let me do that for you?"

 _Do that for me._ Not a question of what Dorian would ask for himself, so that a yes is about giving a partner something, not anything he can be mocked for wanting.

Dorian swallows audibly, his "yes" more of a hissed breath than an actual word as he rubs himself against Bull's thigh.

"When I was done, would you do the same for me?" Bull asks, trailing his fingers up Dorian's chest, tweaking one nipple on the way by. "Would you wrap that beautiful mouth around my dick and suck me?" His fingers continue upward, brushing Dorian's throat and jaw before teasing at his lips.

Dorian doesn't answer aloud this time, but he leans forward against the pull on his bound arms and wraps his tongue around Bull's fingers, licking and biting as Bull pushes them farther into his mouth, three fingers all the way to the last knuckle. Dorian sucks on them eagerly, tongue exploring the spaces between and around them, and his breath is warm and quick against the back of Bull's hand.

The sound Dorian makes when Bull takes his hand back is disappointed, and Bull's tempted to abandon all his careful plans for the evening, to stand up and fuck Dorian's mouth until he comes. Except there's a reason that wasn't originally in the playbook for tonight: plenty of people don't like it, and even some who like it in fantasy hate the reality. Not a good way to start things off, even if this isn't technically their first time together.

So instead, he drops his hand, now slick with spit, to Dorian's cock and begins to stroke firmly. "Or maybe I wouldn't suck you off," he growls in Dorian's ear. "Maybe I'd just pin you to the door and do this."

Dorian's breath catches, then he manages to gasp out, "Such a difficult decision."

If he's got enough brain to spare for sarcasm, then Bull's not doing something right. "I want you to come for me," he whispers, touching his lips to the hollow behind Dorian's jaw. "Right here, right now, while I watch you."

There's no answer this time, just a quiet whimper as Dorian's body begins to shake.

He pulls gently on Dorian's arms, forcing him to arch his back. As his head tips back, Bull leans down to bite his lower lip, sucking on it as his hand strokes faster. Dorian's hips are rocking, and he's moaning into Bull's mouth, desperate sounds that are making Bull achingly hard. He arches his own back a little, pressing his cock against Dorian's hip.

"And later? I'm going to fuck you so hard," he murmurs between kisses. "Bend you over and fuck you until you can't think about anything except how much you want to come." A deeper kiss, tongue exploring Dorian's mouth while Dorian kisses him back with equal force. "And with your arms like this, you won't be able to touch yourself, or hold yourself up, keep your face off the floor. You won't be able to do anything except take my dick while I fuck you into this carpet, and tomorrow, every time you look in the mirror, you're going to see that mark on your face and remember exactly what put it there."

Dorian shudders against him and his mouth stops moving, stretched in a soundless shout as he comes, jerking against his bound hands hard enough that Bull relaxes his grip a little, worried about his shoulders. But even as he's worrying, he can't look away from Dorian, whose muscles are so tight they're shaking. It's always been a turn-on for Bull, watching someone fall completely apart like this, and Dorian's face and body are wonderfully expressive. Whoever it was in his past who tried to make him ashamed, they need a good kick in the ass. Maybe more than one.

As Dorian relaxes and slumps forward, Bull releases the shirt to catch him before he falls. Dorian makes an odd noise, and Bull murmurs, "I got you."

"You certainly do," Dorian mumbles into Bull's chest. "While what I've got, apparently, is no control. Remind me to be embarrassed later."

Bull laughs. "Well, I wasn't exactly trying to draw things out." He leans down so he can whisper in Dorian's ear again, because it got such a good reaction last time. "I like watching you come just from my hands on you. Or your hands on you. Maybe we can try that sometime, you jerking yourself off while I watch you."

"Only if I get to watch you at the same time." Dorian's face is still buried against his chest, and Bull can feel his breath, warm and moist, despite the t-shirt between them. The sensation is a nice complement to the words, both sharpening the desire inside him.

He's tempted again to change his plans for the evening, but he makes it a personal rule to never let the little head make decisions for the big head, and that means sticking to the plan no matter what tempting alternatives appear. The plan was made when he was thinking logically, and changing it when his brain barely has enough blood to keep him upright is a really stupid idea. That's how people get hurt, and not just physically.

He takes a slow, deep breath, then reaches one handed for some of the scraps from Dorian's jeans so he can clean them both off carefully. That done, he begins to untwist the shirt.

"You could leave it," Dorian says, and he sounds tentative, almost embarrassed, not at all the confident guy who just seconds ago said he was hoping to watch someone else jerk off.

"Not good for your shoulders," Bull says, half apologetically. "Doesn't mean we can't come back to it later."

Dorian nods without leaning away, still letting Bull support most of his weight. Not that Bull's complaining. Having Dorian warm against him, body loose despite the position his arms are in, is a feeling Bull's in favor of experiencing as many times as possible. He finishes unwinding the shirt and pulls it back up around Dorian, smoothing the fabric down before reaching underneath to rub at his abused shoulders.

"I'm all right," Dorian says without pulling away. "It didn't hurt."

"Okay," Bull says neutrally. That could be a good thing or a bad thing, and he doesn't know which way Dorian means it. "Rough" was definitely on the yes list, but Bull's learned to step carefully around that one: everyone has their own definition, and not everyone actually knows their own limits.

"You can be rougher, next time." He doesn't sound as embarrassed as he did before. If anything, he sounds a tiny bit breathless at the thought, and Bull hides a grin by kissing the side of his head.

"Rougher. Got it."

Dorian rolls his shoulders and wrists a couple times before pressing his palms flat to Bull's chest. "Speaking of which. I believe there was talk of fucking me into the carpet?"

"Give yourself a couple minutes," Bull says, even more amused. "We've got all night."

And he intends to take advantage of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually only the first half of what was supposed to be chapter 8, but the whole thing is already over 8,000 words and that's a bit longer than I like chapters to get. The rest will go up at some point next week, because it's going to take me a little while to finish it.


	9. Sweet Surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You take me in, no questions asked  
> You strip away the ugliness that surrounds me  
> Are you an angel?  
> Am I already that gone?  
> I only hope that I won't disappoint you  
> When I'm down here on my knees
> 
> And sweet surrender  
> Is all that I have to give
> 
> Sarah McLachlan, "Sweet Surrender"  
> ****************************************  
> I'm to the point where I hate this chapter, which usually means I've been messing with it too much and I just need to post the damn thing. I hope it's not as terrible as my brain is telling me it is, right now.

Dorian's couch is ridiculously uncomfortable, so uncomfortable Bull has to wonder if it's deliberate, a way for Dorian to keep social calls short. After two minutes, Bull's back is already hurting, and while he'll admit that his back sometimes hurts for no good reason, he's pretty sure the sofa is to blame in this case. Even a mostly-naked Dorian on his lap isn't enough of a distraction.

"What's the story on the sofa?" Bull asks as he shifts them to the floor. Which is, indeed, more comfortable, and leaves him free to appreciate Dorian rocking slowly against him, mouth exploring his collarbone.

An exploration that goes on pause while Dorian raises his head to give Bull an incredulous look. "Do you really want to talk about my taste in home decor right now?" His hand makes another attempt to go for Bull's groin, and Bull grabs his wrist for the third time.

"I was trying to distract you," Bull says with a grin. He keeps hold of the hand this time, pinning it to Dorian's thigh.

"Remind me again _why_ ," Dorian says. He arches his back, driving his ass down against Bull's cock, and even through his jeans, it forces out his breath in a rush. "You can't tell me you don't want to fuck me right now."

"It'd be a lie if I did say it," Bull says, catching Dorian's left hand and pinning it, too. When Dorian looks up at him in frustration, Bull smiles. "You want me to fuck you?"

"I think I've made that fairly plain." He's smiling despite the pissy tone, and he rocks his hips again, harder than before.

"Then stop fighting me."

Dorian gives up trying to pull his hands free and aims a narrow-eyed look in Bull's direction. "Maybe that's what I want, to fight you while you fuck me."

And Bull won't deny the appeal of that particular game--particularly when combined with Dorian's earlier "You can be rougher, next time"--but what he really wants tonight is for Dorian to give up control.

"Well," Bull says, smile broadening, "how about this? I sure don't mind what you're doing, so you keep right on doing it. When you decide you want to be fucked, quit fighting me."

Not that Bull has any intention of releasing his hands until he stops fighting, but Dorian can rub his ass on Bull's dick all he wants. As good as it feels, it's not going to be enough to get him off.

"So if I stop trying to get you to fuck me, you'll fuck me?" Dorian asks skeptically.

"Yup," Bull says.

Dorian gives this about half a second's thought, then his hands stop tugging at Bull's. His ass shifts one more time as he finds a comfortable position, and then that, too, stops.

It's so surprising that Bull blinks. He'd expected at least a little more of a struggle, if only because Dorian would be sure he could win. Dorian is wearing a challenging smirk that might mean this is a trick, but when Bull releases his wrists, he doesn't try anything.

"Hands behind your back," Bull says, holding up his own to show Dorian what he wants: right hand around left wrist. "If you let go, I stop."

Dorian complies, his shirt gaping open as he does it. The rings were a bit of a surprise that first night, but Bull likes them, and likes the way they keep Dorian's nipples half erect. From this angle, he's never going to be able to bend enough to get his mouth on them, but he pinches one between his fingers, twisting with increasing force as he watches Dorian's face. As he twists harder, Dorian's lips part and his hips begin to move again, this time in small, involuntary jerks that are about a hundred times hotter than the deliberate tease from earlier.

Bull pushes one finger between Dorian's lips, and again Dorian surprises him: he doesn't resist, but he also doesn't try to bite or suck. He just accepts it passively, gaze locked on Bull's, the challenging look already fading. It's not gone completely, and there's still a hint of a smirk at the corners of his eyes, but he keeps his hands locked behind his back without trying to cheat, and he doesn't chase after Bull's finger when it slides out of his mouth.

As a reward, Bull tilts his own hips, upsetting Dorian's balance so he falls forward into a hard kiss, tongues rubbing together until Dorian is whimpering and shoving his chest against the hand still squeezing one of his nipples. The whimpers turn into a choked off groan when Bull's finger traces a path down his spine and between the cheeks of his ass, teasing him with tiny thrusts barely an inch into his body.

"When I said I wanted you to fuck me," Dorian manages to say, "this wasn't quite what I had in mind." His tone, like his face, has lost most of its challenge, and his eyes are dark.

"Oh?" Bull says. He lets go of Dorian's nipple, smoothing his thumb over it while he keeps his other hand still, just the tip of one finger pressed inside. "I like this pretty well, myself."

"I didn't say I didn't like it," Dorian says, eyes sliding halfway closed. "I was just hoping for a little more."

Despite his words, he makes no attempt to fuck himself on Bull's finger, and he has enough freedom of movement to get at least a couple good thrusts in. The muscles in his legs are tense, and his shoulders are rolling under the shirt, but he's doing exactly as he was told, no tricks or half measures.

Without warning him, Bull comes up onto his knees, shoving Dorian hard out of his lap and onto his ass. Even as he skids a couple inches over the rug, Dorian keeps his hands locked behind his back, and Bull catches him before he can fall all the way over.

Lifting Dorian up onto his knees, Bull murmurs, "Good." He wraps his hands around Dorian's to make his meaning clear, squeezing hard for a second. "Just like that."

Dorian shivers against him but says nothing, and Bull counts that silence as a victory. They're kneeling face-to-face, Dorian's tipped up to his, and the smirk is completely gone. If anything, he looks vulnerable: eyes wide and dark, breath coming a little too fast through parted lips.

"Relax," Bull says quietly. "I want to take care of you." He cups Dorian's face in both hands and kisses him again, very gently. "Will you let me do that?"

There's a pause, as if Dorian is trying to figure out how to say something, but when he does finally speak, it's only one word, barely audible. "Yes."

"Good." Bull's hands glide downward, pushing Dorian's shirt off his shoulders again, and Dorian rocks forward a little bit in anticipation. Bull stops halfway, the shirt pinned in his fingers so it can't fall further, and says, "Don't move unless I say." He puts a little snap into the words, making them...not harsh, but definitely a command.

Dorian swallows, the muscles in his arms twitching under Bull's fingers, and there's another brief flash of defiance across his face. He doesn't move again, though, not even to nod, and that defiant look fades as Bull lets the shirt slide the rest of the way down. As he twists it back into the knot, he notices that Dorian is taking him completely seriously: his right hand continues to grip his left wrist, knuckles turning white as he fights to maintain his hold against the pressure from his slowly-tightening shirt.

"You can let go of your wrist," Bull says, and when Dorian does, he finishes winding the shirt tight. It pulls Dorian's shoulders back, drawing Bull's attention to his nipples and the rings gleaming there. He toys with one gently, then harder when Dorian doesn't move, then even harder when Dorian _still_ doesn't move and doesn't make a sound.

Bull touches his mouth to Dorian's throat, feeling the muscles working to maintain that silence, a silence that continues even when Bull twists as hard as he dares. There's sweat beginning to bead on the skin under his mouth, and Bull licks it, tasting salt.

"Let me hear you," he says, and Dorian exhales in a groan that rises and falls with his breath until Bull lets go of his nipple.

Without releasing the shirt, Bull explores Dorian's body as if he hasn't already touched nearly every inch of it. Because he might have touched, but there are still things to learn, and he likes listening to the sounds Dorian makes as he learns them. The only places he doesn't touch are Dorian's cock and his ass, though he circles near them constantly, waiting for Dorian's control to break, for him to move to force the contact Bull's denying him.

Only, his control doesn't break. Low, wordless sounds pour from his mouth, and his skin sometimes twitches involuntarily, and his muscles must be aching with the tension in them, but he doesn't move no matter what Bull does. A sharp twist of one nipple gets a gasp. Blunt fingernails up the inside of his thigh get a whimper. Teeth against the thick muscle between neck and shoulder get a moan, one that stutters as Bull sucks on the skin hard enough to leave a mark.

Dorian doesn't move, though. Not even once, not even when Bull begins to raise his bound hands high again. Where before he bent with the pressure, now he fights to hold his position until Bull says, "Bend forward," and he does, all the way down to rest his cheek on the rug, arms stretched out straight in the air behind him.

Intrigued, Bull finds one of his hands, the fingers clenched into a tight fist, and taps it. "Open," he says, and Dorian flexes his fingers slowly.

The shirt is twisted tightly enough that Bull has to loosen it a bit before the tail reaches Dorian's open hand, but eventually he gets it just the right length: long enough Dorian can grab it but not long enough to let his arms move apart. He folds Dorian's hand around the fabric, touching each finger to check that they're still warm, not cold the way they'd be if the shirt was too tight around his wrists.

"Now hold that until I come back," Bull says, pressing Dorian's cheek firmly against the floor, hard enough he can't nod even if he forgot himself enough to try.

Bull counts off sixty seconds in his head, starting from the moment he walks out of Dorian's line of sight. For most of that time, he just waits, deliberately silent, making sure he's still calm and in control. When he gets to sixty, he picks up his bag and takes it with him back into the living room, giving it decent odds that Dorian has moved; it's not an easy position to hold for fifteen seconds, much less a full minute. If nothing else, Bull expects him to have let his hands drop to rest on the small of his back, even if they're still tied together.

But he hasn't. He's exactly where Bull left him, ass in the air and face pressed to the rug, his eyes closed in fierce concentration as he struggles to keep his arms extended out from his body. His muscles tremble with the effort it takes to hold the position, and a few beads of sweat are running down his back and neck. There's not even a twitch when Bull drops the bag by his head, as deliberately loud now as he was deliberately silent a minute ago. Dorian's eyes rolling under his eyelids are the only sign he's still there.

Kneeling beside him, Bull touches his bound hands and the front of his shoulder, guiding him carefully up and around to sit on his heels facing Bull. Dorian's eyes are still closed, and his head continues to move after his body stops, so his chin ends up tipped toward the ceiling, almost as if he's baring his throat for Bull's teeth.

He doesn't move when Bull lets go of him, though the angle of his neck has to be making it hard to breathe. In the soft light from the lamp, Bull can see the tremors in his muscles, the way his skin shivers as if in reaction to a touch that isn't there. Watching him, Bull forgets for a minute what he'd planned to do, mesmerized by the lines of Dorian's body, caught in the impossible fantasy of touching him everywhere, all at once, with lips and fingers and tongue.

Dorian swallows, struggling against the way his position draws his throat tight, and Bull remembers what he's supposed to be doing. One hand at the base of Dorian's skull, Bull coaxes him off his heels and forward, guiding his head to rest in the curve of Bull's neck.

"Look at you," he murmurs, rubbing his thumbs over Dorian's shoulders. "So perfect, trying so hard for me." And because it's true, he says it again, right by Dorian's ear. "So perfect."

He's half expecting a smart-assed comment, but Dorian is silent except for his breathing, and Bull leans away to check his face. It's hard to read, empty in a way that could mean anything. If he had more experience with Dorian, or if Dorian had more experience _period_ , Bull might let it go, but he'd rather be careful. "What's your safeword?" he asks quietly, palms on Dorian's cheeks.

For a second, Dorian's face stays blank, as if he's forgotten the answer, or didn't hear the question. Then his eyes blink open, and he stutters, "R-red light."

"Do you need to use it?"

His head twitches, like he started to shake it before he caught himself. "No."

In among the other "stuff" in his bag, Bull included a blindfold that he'd planned to use tonight. Watching Dorian's face, he allows himself one small change to the plan. "Close your eyes," he murmurs, "and keep them closed until I say you can open them."

There's not even a hint of rebellion this time: Dorian's eyes are closed before Bull's finished his sentence. Leaning forward a little, Bull can look over his shoulder and see that his hand is still clenched around his shirt, keeping the binding taut, and he can't stop himself from saying again, "God, you're so fucking perfect."

That gets a reaction, a small noise that doesn't need words for Bull to understand it. As he brushes his thumbs across the very tips of Dorian's eyelashes, he keeps talking; nothing very deep or original, just a low murmur telling him how beautiful he is, how good. None of it is poetry for the ages, but Bull means every word, and he tries to put as much of that into his voice as possible, whispering against Dorian's mouth and cheeks and closed eyelids.

###

Bull is talking, voice rumbling up from his chest and through Dorian's skin to settle into his bones, as much a caress as his hands even if none of the sounds mean anything. Maybe later he'll try to recall what Bull said, break apart the words into something that actually makes sense, but it's too much effort right now. All that matters is the tone, as hushed and reverent as any prayer Dorian's ever heard.

That prayer is very nearly the only thing Dorian knows at the moment. His head feels like it's come unmoored from his body, floating a few inches and a couple seconds out of sync with the rest of him. It should be unpleasant, but it isn't, because instead of the spinning thoughts that usually plague him, even during sex, all he's aware of is the physical: the sweat on his skin, the ache in his shoulders, the rug under his knees.

And Bull moving against him, because as much as Dorian is conscious of his own body, he's even more conscious of Bull's, of the warmth of his skin and the roughness of his hands and the softness of his mouth broken occasionally by the sharp bite of teeth. Every touch pushes him closer to the edge, and then pushes the edge further away, so that he's constantly one second away from losing control. He's vaguely aware that he could open his fist and free his hands, touch the skin that's so close he can almost taste it, but the soft voice whispering praise into his ear would stop if he did that, and he'd rather have this endless torment than disappoint Bull.

Something pinches his nipples again, a steady pressure that builds in his chest and makes him gasp for breath. Distantly, he becomes aware that he can still feel both of Bull's hands--one between his shoulder blades and one stroking the top of his thigh, tantalizingly close to his dick--and that should mean something, but the tiny fragment of his brain not currently drowning in static is concerned with only two things.

He was told to keep his eyes closed, so he does.

He was told not to move, so he doesn't.

Instead, he lets Bull move him, gentle pressure guiding him down until his cheek rests against the floor for the third time. There's already a small mark on his skin from the first time, and the rug's fibers feel especially harsh against that spot. If he were allowed to move, he would rub his face against the rug, spread that burn out as much as he could, but he's not allowed to move, so he just waits for whatever comes next.

Which turns out to be tiny pinpricks on the inside of his forearm, running upward to his elbow and then his shoulder, along the back of his neck and down again in a wandering, looping path. The intensity varies from so light it almost tickles to the kind of pain he remembers from getting his nipples pierced. Still, there's a reason he got the piercings, and the sharp jabs now trailing over his calf are bright counterpoint to the dull ache in his shoulders and nipples.

He's fighting for control again, wanting to move, to thrust, to press his aching cock against anything that will relieve the pressure, and he almost loses it when Bull pushes his knees apart with one hand. That hand strokes up the inside of his thigh, followed closely by the trail of pinpricks, the points digging in hard against delicate skin. He has to clench every muscle in his body to keep from rocking as the pins trace the curve of his ass to his back and then back down to the base of his spine.

Those tiny points of pain, and the control required to keep still, are so distracting that he forgets about tracking Bull's other hand until Bull fucks him hard and suddenly with one slick finger. His throat closes around a scream, turning it into a choked gurgle, and if his body wasn't already as tense as it could get, he would probably have thrust backward before he could stop himself. As it is, he barely controls the motion, squeezing his fists so tightly that his nails dig painfully into the palm not wrapped in the end of the shirt.

The pinpricks have stopped, replaced by Bull's warm palm rubbing his back between his shoulder blades. The fingers of his other hand--two now--stroke deep inside Dorian, finding the places that make him cry out and then working them mercilessly. His throat is sore before Bull withdraws his fingers, and his mouth is dry from gasping for air.

For all the noise of his own heavy breathing and pounding heart, the sound of Bull unzipping his jeans is instantly recognizable. If Dorian could remember how to talk, he would be pleading, but he can't, and he isn't even allowed to move, to let his body speak where his mouth can't. It's torture, and it seems to go on forever. Time has lost meaning, twisting in on itself until there's only now, and the perfect agony jumping between his nipples and his cock, and the desperate need to have Bull inside him.

The sound of a condom wrapper being torn open is as recognizable as a zipper being lowered, and a very small voice in the back of Dorian's head says, _Oh right. That._ The sheer wrongness of that disrupts the white-out blanketing his thoughts, but only for a second, because then Bull is there, cock pressing into him, his heat like an invasion, and Dorian is more than willing to surrender to it.

All care, all gentleness, is gone now, and memory burns briefly through him, Bull's low voice growling _"...fuck you into this carpet..."_ and the memory and the reality together have Dorian crying out again, heedless of the pain in his throat. It's just another sensation now, another small pain swallowed up and transformed by the pleasure rushing through him. Rather than dimming the euphoria, the white-out in his head amplifies it, expands it, so that Bull's command not to move becomes irrelevant: Dorian no longer has enough control over his body to do anything except feel.

Bull's hands are holding onto his hips tight enough to bruise, and he's ramming his cock deep, harder than Dorian's ever been fucked, and it's perfect, exactly what he wants but has never been able to persuade anyone to give him, and the feel of Bull's jeans chafing against his skin is wrong in all the right ways. The rug is burning his cheek with every one of Bull's thrusts, and that only makes it better, knowing the mark will be there in the morning, probably for _days_ , and whatever's clamped around his nipples jerks with every movement, making him want to scream if only he could remember how.

He comes without a hand on his cock, and Bull fucks him through it with the same almost-brutal thrusts, hitting precisely the right spot every time, and when Dorian is limp and shaking and spent, Bull slows and stops.

Dorian makes a protesting noise, but the words for, "I know you didn't come, don't stop on my account," are completely beyond his current capabilities.

"Shhh," Bull says, and then the pressure on his nipples is released and he swallows back a noise at the sensation, half pleasure and half pain.

The snick of the knife blade opening again pulls Dorian back to reality, but he can't feel even a glimmer of fear, real or feigned. Which is just as well, since Bull only uses the knife to cut apart his shirt and free his hands. Not that Dorian has any more control over them than he does over his mouth, but it doesn't matter, because Bull just picks him up and leans back--against the sofa, maybe?--putting Dorian in his lap.

Well, sort of. He's actually more astride Bull's stomach, supported by Bull's hands under his thighs, and he's very aware of the hard cock resting against one ass cheek. With his eyes closed, it's hard to be sure, but there's bare skin between his legs, and he wonders idly when Bull took off his shirt. He's definitely still wearing his jeans, the stitching on the waistband rubbing against Dorian's knees, and Dorian wants to move, to feel that roughness on his skin, except that he's supposed to be holding still.

"Dorian," Bull says.

"Hmmmmm?" It's the best he can manage.

"You can move if you want, but I need you to open your eyes and look at me for a second." He doesn't even sound out of breath, which Dorian thinks is dreadfully unfair.

Or he will think it, when he can think about anything beyond how good Bull feels against him.

He blinks his eyes open, and despite the fogged state of his brain, he knows exactly what question Bull is about to ask him. Rather than wait to be asked, and then be stuck trying to make his mouth produce a coherent response, he just arches his back and squirms out of Bull's grasp, sliding down Bull's stomach to rub against his cock. Without his hands, he can't actually line anything up right, but Bull laughs, and there's a little bit of breathlessness at last. It's only fair, given that Dorian still feels like he might faint at any second.

"Fuck me," Dorian manages to say, and he's rather pleased with himself for getting out not just one word, but two. In the correct order, no less.

That train of thought gets derailed as Bull does exactly as ordered, and it doesn't matter that Dorian's just come, that he's probably not going to be able to come again for hours, because it feels so good, filling him up in long, slow strokes that have him whimpering again, open mouth resting against Bull's throat. His body is still limp, but it doesn't matter: Bull moves him, guiding him up and down, faster and faster, and Dorian sucks on the skin under his mouth, scraping it with his teeth until Bull shudders and wraps his arms tight around Dorian's chest, hips jerking as his body tries to curl inward.

When Bull stopes trying to squeeze all his air out, Dorian leans up for a kiss, tasting his mouth as if they've never kissed before. Bull kisses him back, his own hands sweeping Dorian's hair away from his face, as gentle as he was rough a few minutes ago.

Eventually Bull breaks the kiss, resting their foreheads together with his fingers threaded through Dorian's hair. "You're pretty fucking amazing, you know that?" he says.

Dorian is still floating out of sync with his thoughts, so he just grins and says, "I know." He brings his own hands up to touch Bull's cheeks and says, only slurring a little, "You're pretty fucking amazing, too."

Bull tilts their heads enough to kiss him again, and Dorian can feel his smile as he says, "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo...chapter 10 is done but for a last editing pass, but chapter 11 isn't even started. Y'all want chapter 10 now, knowing it'll then be two weeks before the next update, or do you want me to space them out a little more?


	10. Surrender to Your Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After your laughter like thunder  
> After your skin like coffee and cream  
> After it takes our bodies into the night  
> After we've come to the extreme 
> 
> I want to lay down on your shoulder  
> Just inside your arm  
> I want to listen to your heart beat  
> And your breathing on and on  
> I want to lay down on your shoulder  
> Surrender to your peace  
> And go to sleep
> 
> Melissa Etheridge, "Sleep"  
> ***************************************  
> I feel like maybe I should have warned y'all that chapter 10 has a lot more talking than sex. It's alternate title could be, "In which a good freakout is had by all. Oh, and some sex. And then more freaking."
> 
> But too late to change your vote now! Mwahahaha!
> 
> Oh, and another reminder to check the tags. Not the D/s tag. The ones before that. :)

They stagger upstairs eventually, Bull doing most of the work to get them there, and Dorian is more than willing to accept the help, his brain and his body not yet back on the same channel. It isn't until he's curled up in bed with Bull's weight resting against him, heavy and grounding, that he even begins to feel halfway normal again.

Shifting his shoulders just to feel skin rubbing on skin, Dorian murmurs, "So clearly I'm not very good at saying no when I mean yes." He's still just a little high, enough that he can't be embarrassed by his completely unconvincing no's from earlier.

"Not necessarily a bad thing," Bull says into his hair. "Some people like it, some people don't. It's not that big a deal, either way."

"Do you like it?" Dorian asks, a little timidly. His brain is coming back online to dissect what's happened, and apparently this is the first thing on the list of things to worry about.

As if to make up for its enforced silence, that doubting voice is coming back with a vengeance. _You can't give him what he wants._

He can feel Bull's smile, though. "I wasn't kidding last week. I like people, and I like sex. If you want to shout 'no, no!' while I chase you all over the house, I'm good with that. If you just want to lie back and let go of everything, I'm good with that, too. If it's working for you, it's probably working for me, whatever it is."

Dorian finds this a little hard to believe, but certainly Bull's questions from last night covered a lot of ground, some of which Dorian hadn't even known existed. There'd been no censure in his voice for any of Dorian's answers, not even the things that were on Bull's own no list. And Bull definitely wasn't objecting tonight, not when he'd been hard every time Dorian brushed up against him.

Which should be reassuring, except that what happened tonight is beginning to sink in, and the fear that's creeping up on him is more than those conventional insecurities. As much as he wants to know what pleases Bull, right now he's mostly afraid of that strange floating place he slipped into, the one where he couldn't do anything except what Bull told him to do.

He shivers, the fear gaining ground as he settles back inside his head. It wasn't that he'd forgotten the safeword; more that it had become irrelevant, because he _wanted_ to do whatever Bull said to do.

 _You **won't** give him what he wants,_ whispers that little voice, the one that sounds remarkably like Rilienus these days.

"Hey," Bull says, and his arms tighten around Dorian. "You okay?"

"Yes," Dorian says, even though it's not true. He can't bring himself to explain, not when he's as embarrassed by that complete, willing subjugation of self as he is afraid of it. Admitting to it is handing over a weapon, ceding far more control than just letting Bull tie him up.

Bull goes still against him. "Don't lie to me," he says. Not angry, but very serious. "If you don't want to talk about something, just tell me that, but don't ever tell me you're okay when you're not."

Free fall. He's in free fall without a parachute. His relationship with Rilienus was built on lies, some insignificant, some crucial, some all-encompassing. Many of them were the small lies he sees in all relationships--"of course I like your new sweater"--and more than half of them were Dorian's, told to himself as often as to Rilienus, but all the same, they were both neck-deep in lies by the end. Maybe more than neck deep, given that Dorian had felt like he was drowning those last few months.

He's not sure he even knows how to tell the truth about what he's feeling, not anymore.

"I'm sorry," he says, apologizing for the lie and for his inability to do what Bull asked. Apologizing for all the lies he's going to tell in the future, because the habit is so ingrained in him by now.

Maybe Bull hears some of that, because he says, "This only works if you tell me the truth. I could hurt you, and that's the last thing I want to do."

"You didn't hurt me," Dorian hastens to say. "Or...not in a way I didn't want." His ass and his face and his shoulders ache, but the pain is warm and dull; welcome reminder rather than actual discomfort.

"Good," Bull says, "but I might next time, just by accident." He kisses the top of Dorian's head, one hand coming up to stroke his hair back from his face. "I would never do anything you didn't want, but I'm not a mind-reader."

That's the crux of the matter, though: Dorian is afraid he'll want whatever Bull tells him to want, if he lets himself float away again. It's not about the things he's embarrassed to ask for--like being tied down and fucked--but more about the things he really, truly doesn't want. Like going bare. He's never in his entire life forgotten to use a condom, but he knows he wouldn't have thought of it earlier, and if he had, he's uncomfortably aware that he probably wouldn't have used the safeword to demand one.

Even before that, there was the knife, and that's equally terrifying, if in a slightly different way. He'd already been slipping when Bull flipped the blade open, and while now the thought of being cut makes his skin crawl, it had seemed like a wonderful idea at the time. If Bull had used that knife on him instead of on his clothes, Dorian's not sure he would have said the safeword for anything short of actual dismemberment.

And his physical safety is the least of it. He never wants to be called a slut again, or a whore, just because he likes sex. The shame of that goes far beyond the mild sting of embarrassment; it's a wound that's still festering, and he doesn't need anyone else jabbing their fingers into it just to watch it bleed again. He spent too much of his life feeling like some kind of unclean _thing_ , and he doesn't want to go back into that pit.

Bull tugs lightly on his hair. "Stay here with me," he says, and Dorian realizes he's tensed up.

He sucks in a deep breath and concentrates on relaxing each muscle. He's not used to his body doing what he doesn't want, and it's one more loss of control, one more thing to fear.

"We don't have to do this again," Bull says, with no trace of reluctance or resentment.

Dorian can't help but doubt his sincerity. "And you'd be fine with that? You don't seem like a very vanilla sort of person." Nobody accumulates that many sex toys just to make other people happy.

"Hey," Bull objects. "I like vanilla just fine." He slides down the bed a little, so his mouth is by Dorian's ear. "I could get some chocolate sauce, lick that off you. That goes with vanilla."

Despite himself, Dorian smiles. "You're not pouring chocolate sauce all over my bed."

"The kitchen table, then?" Bull asks in an exaggeratedly hopeful tone, and Dorian shakes his head, laughing now. Bull leans closer and purrs, "I promise to clean it _all_ up." His breath stirs Dorian's hair, making him shiver. It's a much more pleasant shiver than the last one.

Bull's fingers are wandering now, exploring his ribs and the muscles in his stomach, tracing the arc of his hipbone and the curve of his ass, and Dorian can feel his body responding, so that by the time Bull's hand makes its way to his cock, he's already getting hard. He pushes all the other thoughts away as best he can, concentrating on Bull's touch.

"If I go slow," Bull murmurs in his ear, "can I fuck you again?"

Dorian shudders, body jerking involuntarily, and it's suddenly a lot easier to ignore everything circling in his brain. "Yes," he manages to say, his mouth not quite forming the right shapes, because what he wants to say is "god, yes, please, now!" Which is ridiculous less than an hour after Bull nearly fucked him through the living room rug, when he should be sore enough for his body to shout "no!" as loudly as it's currently shouting "yes!"

"You want me to stop at any point," Bull whispers, stroking his cock with gentle fingers, "just say it and I will."

He rolls away for a second, and when he comes back with lube and a condom, it becomes clear he wasn't kidding about slow: he's painfully, exquisitely careful, so gentle Dorian is the one demanding more, faster, harder. Bull ignores those demands, his fingers curling inside Dorian while his lips and tongue explore the skin between his ear and the point of his shoulder until Dorian is begging and half sobbing, his cock leaking.

Just at the point where it seems like Bull intends to torture him for the rest of the night, Dorian finds himself on his back, Bull looming over him, cock pressing into him as slowly and carefully as his fingers were a second ago. He's got one of Dorian's legs almost straight up in the air, his thumb rubbing circles on the inside of the ankle as he fits their bodies together. Other than a brief moment when he turns his head to kiss the skin his thumb is stroking, he watches Dorian's face intently.

It's the same look from last week, the one that marks Dorian as the center of the universe, the point around which everything else turns, and he has to close his eyes, because he can't deal with all the emotions that look stirs up inside him.

Bull finishes that first impossibly long thrust and pauses there a moment, his balls against Dorian's ass, before he pulls back as slowly as he pushed in. At the very limit, just the head of his cock still inside, he releases Dorian's leg, guiding it down to wrap around his waist, hand wandering up from ankle to hip. On his next stroke, he bends forward, bracing his forearms against the pillow on either side of Dorian's head, stealing small, light kisses until he's all the way inside again.

He presses his cheek to Dorian's and whispers, "God, you feel so good. I want to stay like this forever, hard inside you while you say my name just like that."

Which is when Dorian realizes he's been chanting Bull's name under his breath, and he clamps his mouth shut, embarrassed by the raw need in his own voice.

"Don't stop," Bull pleads, and makes a tiny thrust with his hips. "I want to hear it, want to know you want this as much as I do."

Dorian whimpers, not sure he could speak anymore.

"Mmmm," Bull hums in his ear. "That's pretty nice, too."

Dorian wants to laugh but can't, too breathless to even fight against Bull's weight pinning him to the bed, preventing him from fucking himself on Bull's cock. "Bull," he gasps out, and Bull begins to move.

Each thrust is measured, almost mechanical in its precision, but there's nothing mechanical about Bull's voice in his ear, whispering the kind of obscene praise that Dorian will find embarrassing later. _Later._ Right now, it just makes the heat in his stomach press outward all the way to his fingers. Aside from the dirty talk, it's about as plain vanilla as it's possible for sex to be, Bull's hands carding gently through his hair as Bull fucks him slowly.

A part of Dorian's brain is still picking away at the earlier question, because this isn't really an answer. Dorian knew _he_ liked vanilla; the question was whether Bull did. But as Bull's voice becomes more and more breathless and his strokes pick up speed, it becomes difficult for even the most paranoid part of Dorian's brain to worry about it, and when Bull says, "Touch yourself for me," in a voice full of gravel, the whole internal debate collapses in on itself.

It hasn't been long enough since his last orgasm, and his body lingers just shy of the peak for what feels like hours. If Bull's getting tired or impatient, there's no sign of it in his voice or his body, and when Dorian does finally get there, it's less of a fall and more of a long slow glide down, his dick pulsing in his hand again and again as Bull murmurs in his ear, "So beautiful, yes, come for me, beautiful," until his voice chokes off and he presses Dorian down hard into the mattress as he comes.

Dorian's still incapable of speaking when Bull pulls out, and this time it does hurt a little, but he really doesn't care. His face is wet, and it's been a long time since an orgasm brought him to tears. If he has to spend the next three days standing, that's a small price to pay.

He's just managed to get his muscles to stop twitching by the time Bull's wiping his hands and stomach with a warm cloth, and even that soft touch is almost too much for his over-stimulated body.

"Hey," Bull says gently, touching the dampness on Dorian's cheek. "You okay?" he asks, exactly the same question that kicked off this whole discussion in the first place.

This time, though, it's not a lie when Dorian says, "Yes." He blinks his eyes open and finds Bull's. "A little bit more than okay."

Bull smiles down at him, his finger stroking through the remains of the tears and across Dorian's lips, leaving them damp.

Dorian licks the finger resting against his lips, tasting Bull's sweat and his own tears. "You know what would make me more okay?" he asks.

"What?"

"If you were down here with me."

"I think we can make that happen," Bull says, and then disappears back into the bathroom.

"That's the wrong direction," Dorian says, and it's not petulant. Not at all. "You're leaving me here, all cold and...and stuff." God, it's just like the other night. How many years of education does he have, that the best he can think of is "stuff"?

Bull comes back with a cup of water, and as soon as Dorian sees it, his mouth is dry and too hot. "Okay," he says, sitting up to take the cup, "I forgive you."

"Such a relief," Bull says. He hands over the water, then stands by the bed, his fingernails scratching lightly across Dorian's scalp. "Since your couch is ridiculously uncomfortable, and I'm not sure I could drive home right now."

"Do you want to go home?" Dorian asks. If he's lucky, the breathlessness from draining the cup in a series of long gulps will hide how important the answer is to him.

"Nope," Bull says easily. "Why would I? You're here."

Dorian's glad he's done drinking, because that would likely have made him choke. He thinks about pointing out that they've known each other a week, but there's no way to do it without sounding like an asshole, and besides, he understands the sentiment perfectly.

"I'm here," he says instead, "but you're not." And he pats the bed beside him, in case his meaning wasn't clear.

"Impatient," Bull says with a click of his tongue, and takes the cup back to the bathroom. He's back in just a few seconds, crawling into bed to curl around Dorian's back again, tugging the blankets up over both of them. His chin rests on the top of Dorian's head, one arm wrapped loosely around Dorian's body, pinning his arms to his chest.

Dorian wiggles backward, just to be sure there's no way to get any closer, and tucks his fist inside Bull's loose fingers.

"Yeah," Bull says around a yawn, "I think I like vanilla just fine." He squeezes Dorian's hand. "Still say it'd be better with chocolate sauce, but then, if it got any better, I'd probably have a heart attack in the middle or something."

"Which would be terrible," Dorian agrees, as dryly as he can with a yawn of his own threatening to crack his jaw.

"Definitely," Bull says. He rubs his chin against the top of Dorian's head and sighs contentedly. "Now go to sleep before you kill me."

Dorian tries, but even as he starts to drift off, that niggling little voice is back, pushing sleep away. _Once isn't the same as every night,_ that voice whispers. _How long before he gets bored and starts looking for someone who doesn't have so much baggage? Someone who will give him what he wants?_

"You're thinking awfully loud," Bull says, startling him. "Especially for a guy who's supposed to be asleep. You want to tell me about it?"

"It just...wasn't what I was expecting," Dorian says. "Not this just now, but earlier."

Bull makes an encouraging noise, as if Dorian actually said something that wasn't vague to the point of uselessness. When Dorian doesn't go on, Bull says, "Subspace can be a little weird, I know."

"Subspace?" Dorian asks, trying not to sound strangled.

"That's what some people call it." Bull shrugs, skin moving against skin.

"I thought that was something out of Start Trek," Dorian says. He's trying for humor, but his brain is racing once again.

"Now there's a thought," Bull says, his chest rumbling as he laughs. "Which Star Trek? And who would be the sub?"

"What's it mean?" Dorian asks, ignoring Bull's questions, and Bull's laugh dies.

When Bull tries to roll him over so they're face-to-face, Dorian resists, but it doesn't do him much good against someone strong enough to pick him up. He thinks seriously about closing his eyes, then tells himself not to be such a fucking coward and meets Bull's gaze.

"You can't do this." Bull looks angry, and it's all the more startling because Dorian hasn't seen anything more than mild annoyance on his face before now. "This isn't a game, and you can't tell me you understand when you don't. If you've got questions, or you're not sure about something, just ask, don't pretend you know and put us both in a situation where I could hurt you."

Dorian holds perfectly still, the only way he can keep control over his face and body. He's messed up somewhere, but he doesn't know how, and if he doesn't know what he did wrong, then he doesn't know how to fix it. It's so much like being back with Rilienus that the shaking starts deep in his chest, the familiar fear and confusion that could follow him for days as he tried to do penance for some unspecified sin. "I don't know what you mean," he says, and his voice is so stiff and wooden that he knows Bull will think he's lying.

Except Bull's anger fades into something still intense but a little more considering. "Last night at the coffee shop," he says, and he looks like he's testing each word before he lets it out. "When I said that people sometimes end up in a headspace where they say yes to things they don't normally want."

It's not a question, but he pauses and raises an eyebrow, so Dorian nods.

"You said you understood what I meant."

Just as his previous statement wasn't quite a question, this isn't quite an accusation, but Dorian rushes to defend himself anyway. "I thought I _did_ understand."

"What did you think I meant?" Bull asks, and his tone is very calm.

"The...the stupid shit people do, that seems like a good idea when you're turned on but that's just awkward later. Having sex in cars, or in an alley." He tries to make a joke, forcing out a laugh around the fear trembling inside him. "Or having sex with someone you've just met."

Bull stares at him a second longer, then to Dorian's surprise, he flops over onto his back, both hands over his face as he mutters, "Shit shit shit shit _fuck_."

"I'm sorry," Dorian says. He has no idea what he's apologizing for, but this is the first step in a game he's played too often. The only question is how many times he'll be required to say the words before he'll be forgiven.

"No," Bull says sharply, rolling back onto his side to face Dorian again. "This is my fault, not yours. _I'm_ sorry."

Dorian waits for the rest, because Rilienus almost never apologized, and on those rare occasions when he did, it was always followed with a caveat that explained how it was really all Dorian's fault anyway.

And sure enough, here it comes, because Bull adds, "But tell me something. When we were talking about it last night, didn't it seem weird that I'd spend so much time on it if it wasn't a little more important than just avoiding stupid stunts?"

"Yes," Dorian says. "I'm sorry, I-"

"Stop apologizing," Bull says. "It's not your fault, but I need to know where we went off the rails so it doesn't happen again. You're just a little too good at pretending you know what's going on when you really don't."

Hard as it is, Dorian swallows another "I'm sorry". The apology fights back, because despite Bull's words, his body is stiff, and he hasn't touched Dorian since rolling him over.

"Tell me," Bull says, and his voice is soft, but he's still maintaining that careful distance between them.

"I thought you'd gotten burned in the past," Dorian says. "That someone rescinded a 'yes' after the fact."

"Shit," Bull says. He closes his good eye and rubs his forehead above his nose, his fingers knocking against the eyepatch so the scar shows briefly. "Did you have even a second where you thought it was weird?"

"A moment or two, I suppose."

"Okay. Then do me a favor: next time you have one of those moments, don't try to logic it out on your own. Just ask, because I'd rather tell you something you already know than screw up like this again."

"Sorry." The word just slips out, and Dorian blinks back a wince when Bull frowns in annoyance.

"I already said it wasn't your fault," Bull says. "You can stop with the guilt trip now."

"But you're still angry." Something else he didn't mean to say, but this conversation has him completely off balance. It's too much like all his fights with Rilienus, except that Bull occasionally deviates wildly from the script before returning to it, line for line.

Bull comes up on one elbow to frown at him. "Well, yeah, but I'm mad at myself, not at you."

Dorian says nothing, because it's patently untrue: there's too much space between them for it to be anything but a lie. Touch was the sign of real forgiveness from Rilienus, rather than the lip-service acceptance that only meant Dorian should continue to apologize and appease.

But it isn't Rilienus with him now. As impossible as it should be to forget that, Dorian finds himself slipping into the old role so easily, and suddenly he's angry. Angry at himself, and angry at Rilienus, and a little angry at Bull for pushing these buttons however unintentionally, and the anger pushes him past the fear to ask, "Can I touch you?"

"Sure," Bull says, startled. "Of course. If you want to."

It's such an odd thing to say that Dorian hesitates. "Why would I not want to?"

"You've got every right to be mad at me. I should have made sure you understood, not let you get sucked into it blind." He rubs his forehead again. "If I'd known you didn't understand what was happening, I would have stopped as soon as I thought you were gone."

The realization hits Dorian hard, a realization he would have come to much sooner if he hadn't been distracted by Bull's anger and his own fears. Bull _knew_. He knew the whole time that he could have done anything, asked for anything, and instead of pushing the line or even trampling right over it, he did...what? Nothing Dorian wouldn't have agreed to whole-heartedly before they'd started.

God, what would Rilienus have done with that kind of power?

"Talk to me," Bull says, and Dorian inhales for the first time in what feels like years.

"You knew!" is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, and it sounds far more accusing than he intended. "You knew that I was..." He flails for the word. "That I was in subspace."

"Well, yeah," Bull says, puzzled. "Isn't that what we've been talking about?"

"You _knew_ ," Dorian says again, because it's the only thing that matters right now and he can't quite believe it.

"Why did you think I wanted to talk about everything beforehand?" Bull asks, even more puzzled.

"I thought you were just being careful," Dorian says, then shakes his head before Bull can speak. "Not careful because I wouldn't be _able_ to say no, but careful because of something someone else did."

"Shit," Bull says again. The hand resting against his stomach makes a move toward Dorian before Bull catches himself and instead presses his fist to the mattress between them. "Christ, Dorian, I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, or scare you."

Dorian finally gets his brain to reboot. "It didn't scare me," he says hurriedly. "I mean, it was unexpected, but it turned everything off, and usually I like thinking, but it never stops, no matter what, and sometimes I just wish I could get my brain to shut up, only I never can, but tonight it _did_ and it was...."

He stops, unable to put his relief into words, to explain the way it felt to be thoughtless and directionless for just once in his life. Everything was silent, the muffled silence of heavy snow, and while he has no desire to live in that place, the knowledge that it's there, that he can get to it in the right circumstances, is like an epiphany.

Only, apparently he needs someone else's help to make it happen, and _that's_ the part that scares him. Still scares him, except that Bull knew already, knew as it was happening, knew and didn't try to push beyond the limits Dorian set. The limits Bull made him set.

Bull, who is even now keeping his distance not because he doesn't want to touch but because he's afraid Dorian doesn't want to touch _him_. _"Of course,"_ he said, when Dorian asked if he could touch him, as if it were a forgone conclusion, as if it would never occur to him to withhold touch as a form of punishment.

Dorian slides forward and Bull lies back down on his side, raising his arm so Dorian can press close to him, chest to chest with their legs twined together. With his arms pinned between them and his face hidden in Bull's neck, Dorian says very quietly, "You could have made me do anything."

"I know," Bull says, and the pulse under Dorian's mouth is too quick.

"Why didn't you?"

"Why didn't I what? Make you do something you didn't want to do?" He sounds as if someone asked why he didn't get Dorian seriously drunk and then fuck him when he was too far gone to protest.

"I would have wanted it then," Dorian says.

"So?" Bull demands. "You didn't want it before, and you wouldn't have wanted it after."

"It would have been my own fault." Dorian's not sure why he's pushing this, except that he keeps thinking about all the things Rilienus would have done in Bull's place. "I put myself in that position-"

"She shouldn't have been wearing that short skirt!" Bull says, and the words are almost a snarl. His arm around Dorian's chest is too tight.

"That's different," Dorian begins, and Bull snaps, "No, it's not."

They're both quiet for a little while, then Dorian says tentatively, "I'm sorry."

Bull swallows audibly. "Dorian," he says, and there's a faint tremor in his voice, as if he's struggling not to yell. "If I'd been the one there, in subspace, would you have taken it as a chance to push past whatever limits I set?"

Dorian recoils, body and mind both. "No!"

"Then can you please assume that I might feel the same way?"

"I'm not used to that," he says, and if his arms weren't currently trapped between their bodies, he would be clapping one hand over his mouth right now.

"I'm kinda getting that," Bull says. He strokes Dorian's back lightly for a little while, and it's impossible not to relax into him. Until he says, "Now that you really understand what I meant, anything you want to move off the yes list?"

Some of Dorian's tension returns, because while there's nothing on the yes list that he wants to change, he's not sure he's comfortable letting himself get pulled into subspace again. Which still makes him think of Star Trek, but he's too wound up to laugh. As wonderful as it felt to give up control so completely, the level of trust required to go into it willingly is more than he's ever given anyone except Max.

But Bull _knew_. Dorian's thoughts keep looping back around to that one point, because while it doesn't seem to mean much to Bull, it means everything to Dorian.

"I'm all right," he says finally. "The yes list can stay the way it is."

"Are you sure?" Bull asks, and he leans back so he can look Dorian in the eye. "Because I wasn't kidding when I said we don't ever have to do this again. If we do, I can't promise you won't end up back there, or that I'll know if you do."

"I'm sure," Dorian says, and he's getting more sure by the second. "I wouldn't mind if it happened again."

"You seemed to mind an awful lot this time, once it was over. Why would next time be different?"

Dorian wants to look away, but he doesn't. "Because now I know I can trust you."

Bull studies him, eye narrowed, for a couple long seconds before he nods. "You know if you want to change your mind, want to take something off that list, all you've got to do is say so. Any time, no matter what's happening."

"Well, perhaps not while I'm at work," Dorian jokes, feeling strangely light.

The corner of Bull's mouth turns up in a smile, but he still looks serious. "Any time," he repeats emphatically. "Maybe don't holler it across the gym at me, but you want to text me in the middle of the night, or from the middle of a meeting, I'm okay with that."

Dorian tries to imagine texting Bull something like _You know, I've decided I don't like rimming after all_ in the middle of lunch with a client, and he can't hold back a laugh.

"All right," he says. "I made the mistake of visualizing, but I've got it. Any time." Bull opens his mouth, and Dorian laughs again. "Yes, I understand that means I can say no even if you're doing whatever it is at the time. Isn't that the whole point of the safeword?"

This time, Bull's smile pulls up both sides of his mouth and makes the corner of his eye crinkle. "Okay, so I'm a little paranoid right now." He pulls Dorian's head back against his chest, pressing his cheek to the top. "I don't ever want to hurt you," he adds, so quietly Dorian wouldn't have been able to hear him if they were even a few inches farther apart.

"I know," Dorian says, and it's true: he _does_ know it. He still feels like he's in free fall, but maybe he does have a parachute after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, don't look for the next update before the end of the month, because I love you guys, but I'm not writing porn while sharing a hotel room with my boss (which is what I'll be doing for most of next week). Just...no.


	11. Unruly Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Busy old fool, unruly sun,  
> Why dost thou thus,  
> Through windows, and through curtains call on us?  
> Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?  
> Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide  
> Late school boys and sour prentices,  
> Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,  
> Call country ants to harvest offices,  
> Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,  
> Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. 
> 
> John Donne, "The Sun Rising"
> 
> ***********************************************
> 
> Tags have been updated again, though not with anything immediately relevant. It's several chapters away, but if switch!Bull is going to bother you, then now's actually a pretty good place to stop, in terms of plot arcs. Of course, I'm hoping you won't. :)

Dorian wakes at an unholy hour of the morning to something beeping at him from the floor. Beside him, Bull mutters a few obscenities into the pillow, and then the warmth of his body is gone. The beeping stops, and that's a plus, but Bull doesn't crawl back into bed beside him, and that's definitely not a plus.

It's enough of a not-a-plus that Dorian raises his head to look around. The clock informs him that it's 6:01, and he gives it a disbelieving look before he switches his gaze to Bull, who's standing in the middle of the room with his pants in one hand and his phone in the other. "What's wrong?" Dorian asks.

"Huh?" Bull says, and looks up. "Oh. Nothing's wrong, that's my alarm. I've got to be at work at eight."

"Ugh," Dorian says, and puts his head back down. "Fuck that." Then he grins. "Better yet, come back to bed and fuck me."

"You'd have to stay awake for that," Bull says, a laugh in his voice.

"It would be worth an alarm beeping at me at six-oh-fucking-clock." He burrows deeper into the pillow, but lets the blankets slip down until they're barely covering his ass. "It's about the only thing that would be worth that."

Bull's hand on the back of his neck is only half a surprise, as are the warm lips that trail along his hairline. Dorian makes an encouraging noise and flexes his hips to rub his cock against the sheets. He aches in so many places, and he still wants Bull's mouth on him and dick in him.

Well, part of him does. The rational part reminds him how much he's going to regret that later, but with Bull's fingers dipping under the sheets to cup his ass, that rational voice is easy to ignore. He's already halfway to hard, and it won't take him long to get all the way there, especially not if Bull-

A swat lands on his ass, just hard enough to sting, and while it feels good, it's followed by the sound of Bull walking away toward the bathroom. "No time," Bull calls over his shoulder. "Got to shower and get something to eat for breakfast."

Without lifting his head from the pillow, Dorian raises one hand, middle finger extended.

"I just said I don't have time for that," Bull says cheerfully, and the bathroom door closes.

Listening to the water run in the shower, Dorian thinks about going back to sleep, but now that he's awake, his mind is already revving up, running through everything he needs to do. Including one excellent way to start the day off right.

Bull laughs when Dorian steps into the shower, a knowing sort of laugh as if he was taking bets with himself how long it would be before Dorian joined him. It's exactly the sort of laugh that would normally make him self-conscious, but Bull has never expressed anything except appreciation for his interest in sex, so Dorian shrugs off the old memories and grins back at him.

"I thought we could multi-task," he says, plucking the bar of soap from Bull's hand. "And help each other out, while we're at it."

"You wash my back, I'll wash yours?" Bull asks.

"Well, it wasn't your back I was thinking of, but we can certainly start there." He steps under the water long enough to wet his hair down, and when he opens his eyes again, Bull is watching him with a smile.

He's also turned a little, so his bad eye is half hidden, and Dorian has to stop himself from frowning. It's not as if the scar is disgusting, and the eyepatch doesn't cover the whole thing anyway; the few inches that are normally obscured are hardly more shocking than the rest of it. The first time Dorian looked up and saw the whole scar, he was startled, but he was also half asleep and not exactly thinking clearly after a night at the hospital with his mother.

But it obviously bothers Bull to have people see it, so Dorian stays to his right side and focuses on his original plan.

It doesn't work out quite the way he intended, because he's barely closed the distance between them when he finds himself spun around and pinned against the side of the shower with Bull's thigh between his legs, one of Bull's hands already stroking him. The angle of Bull's body puts his cock against Dorian's side, which would be awkward anyway, and it only gets more awkward when Bull turns so his body is perpendicular to Dorian's.

"I thought we were in a hurry," Dorian says, a little breathless. "I really can't reach that far."

"Don't think about that right now," Bull says. "In fact, don't think about anything at all, except what I'm going to do to you tonight after work."

As if Dorian not thinking is that easy. And right now, what he's thinking about is how much he wants to touch Bull. He's actually capable of doing more than passively receiving orgasms, but aside from that spectacular fuck last week, Bull seems determined to prevent him from doing anything more active than moaning encouragement.

It feels silly to complain about something like that--Dorian knows plenty of people who would happily lie back and accept whatever Bull wanted to give them--but he _likes_ to touch people. Sucking cock isn't a chore in his world, something to be gotten through so he can cash it in for a blowjob of his own. He gets off on watching other people enjoy themselves, and while it's all well and good that Bull feels the same, they clearly need to have a little talk about this.

Except it's hard to think clearly with Bull's hand, slick with soap, stroking him off, and Bull's ragged breathing in his ear, and he might not be able to reach, but he knows Bull is stroking his own cock at the same time, and he comes hard, gasping and shaking and barely able to keep his feet.

He's still dizzy when Bull turns him back around and kisses him hard, tongue thrusting into Dorian's already-open mouth, and Dorian collects up enough brain cells to realize that Bull's cock is now well within his reach, just as Bull comes with a groan, sagging against him.

 _Must talk about this later,_ Dorian reminds himself, but the thought is vague and barely half formed. If Bull's considerable weight wasn't pinning him to the side of the shower, he'd be curling up in the bottom of the tub. Perhaps running down the drain with the water, because he feels like all his bones and muscles have turned to liquid.

"That was a good idea," Bull says in his ear, and Dorian laughs. "Now what's for breakfast?"

Dorian's breakfasts generally consist of coffee the consistency of motor oil and a sullen indifference to food of any kind, but right now, he's starving and not feeling in the least bit sullen. "French toast?" he suggests, because it's easy and he knows he has the ingredients.

"Do I have to make it?" Bull asks.

"Not unless you want to."

"French toast it is!" And then he captures Dorian's mouth in another kiss, the kind of intense kiss that usually happens before sex, not after. It leaves Dorian so light-headed he almost falls getting out of the shower.

"Careful there," Bull says, catching his arm and holding him upright while he regains his footing.

"This is your fault," he informs Bull, and the smile he gets in return is unrepentant.

Dorian does manage to get some blood back to his brain before he risks the stairs, and by the time he's rattling around in the kitchen, he's feeling almost normal. As the pan heats, he glances at his phone and finds half a dozen increasingly frantic texts from Max, and two missed calls.

"Seriously?" he mutters, and texts back a quick, _Not dead. Really._

He doesn't even have time to put the phone down before he gets a reply: _I know you're not Dorian because Dorian is never up at this hour._

 _Fuck you,_ Dorian texts back with a grin.

 _OK,_ Max sends. _That sounds more like the guy who once threw a chemistry book at my head for daring to wake him before noon._

Which sort of demands a second _fuck you_ in response, so Dorian sends exactly that and then sets the phone aside to start cooking.

He's got four slices done and in the oven to keep warm when Bull shows up in the kitchen doorway, newspaper in hand. "I didn't think anyone actually got one of these anymore," he says, waving the paper in the air.

Embarrassed without quite knowing why, Dorian says, "I've always gotten one." As he pours Bull a cup of coffee, he says to the carafe, "When I was a kid, I used to read the paper with my parents." God, he hasn't thought about that in years; the paper arrives and he reads it on Sunday mornings, and that's just the way he does things.

"The comics?" Bull asks, and Dorian coughs, even more embarrassed.

"Ahhh, no." He busies himself with putting the carafe back in the coffee maker, so he won't have to meet Bull's gaze. "The business section, usually. And the real estate." He tries to make a joke of it. "My father taught me about short selling stocks, and my mother taught me about short selling real estate, and a good time was had by all."

"So maybe you can explain short sales to me," Bull says, and he's smiling when Dorian looks up at him.

"Except you already know what they are," Dorian guesses.

"Yeah," Bull admits, reaching for the mug Dorian holds out to him. "But if you sit in my lap while you do it, I don't really care if you read me the phone book."

Dorian pulls the mug back just before Bull's hand would have closed on it. "For that, I'm revoking your coffee privileges."

Bull moves as fast as he did last night, and Dorian nearly dumps hot coffee on both of them. There's no wall-slamming this time, just Bull looming over him in a pose that would be a lot more menacing if he wasn't grinning, his fingers touching Dorian's jaw so lightly he can barely feel it.

While Dorian is distracted by that touch and Bull's nearness, Bull steals the coffee mug from his hand and escapes the kitchen, chuckling evilly.

Dorian follows him as far as the kitchen doorway so he can shake the spatula in his direction and mutter "Asshole!" loud enough to be heard on the front porch, but Bull just smirks and takes a seat at the dining room table.

"Someone promised me breakfast," Bull says, and ducks when Dorian pretends to throw the spatula at him.

Mornings are definitely not Dorian's favorite time of day, but he's having a hard time hating much of anything with Bull sitting shirtless at his table, sipping coffee and running a hand over his freshly shaved scalp. The top button on Bull's jeans is open, and Dorian is just contemplating the appeal of a morning blowjob--he hasn't completely forgotten his resolution while they were in the shower--when there's a quick hard knock on his front door.

Anyone knocking on his door at seven o'clock on a Sunday morning is automatically on Dorian's shit-list, but after the last week, the sound makes his stomach clench. It only helps a little to remind himself that his mother is far more likely to summon him to her side than come here herself.

Breakfast forgotten, he braces himself and goes to answer the door.

###

Whoever it is at the door, Bull decides he hates them for the way Dorian's mood changes at the sound of that knock. Dorian's chin comes up and his shoulders go back, and his Arrogant SOB face is there in a second.

Bull stays in his seat despite his first impulse to get up and protect Dorian from this newest arrival. No one asked for his help, and jumping in to protect adults from unspecified threats doesn't usually end well for anyone.

Out of his line of sight, the front door opens and a male voice says cheerfully, "Why, good morning, Dorian!"

"What do you want?" Dorian demands flatly, and Bull has to control another impulse to leap up.

"Based on your oh-so-charming texts," the other voice answers, "I deduced that you were awake and ready to receive callers."

"Fuck you," Dorian says.

Bull is out of his chair and halfway around the table, heading for the door, when someone appears from the front hallway. Given Dorian's tone--not to mention the look on his face as he follows his guest into the living room--Bull wasn't expecting to find himself facing the friend Dorian was clubbing with last weekend. Nothing about Dorian is the least bit friendly right now: from his scowl to his clenched fists, he looks ready to fight.

The guy--Max, that was his name--is giving Bull a look that's almost as unfriendly. "Good morning," he says, with a smile that's all teeth. "I'm Maxwell Trevelyan, and you must be Bull, of the unspecified last name." He sounds like a younger, angrier version of Aquinea, without her years of experience to make it subtle.

Bull almost laughs, because suddenly everything makes a lot more sense. "Bull Hassrad," he says easily, holding out his hand.

Max looks at it, then back at Bull's face without offering his own hand. "What are you doing here?"

"He was invited," Dorian says, before Bull can answer. "I invited him over for breakfast. Unlike some people I could name."

"For breakfast," Max repeats, without inflection, and Bull can't blame him. Shirtless, barefoot, drinking coffee at Dorian's dining room table at seven on a Sunday morning: yeah, there's no chance of pretending this is just a social call for French toast. And why are they even trying?

Bull almost wishes he'd put on a shirt before he came downstairs, but then he wouldn't have gotten that "I'm thinking seriously about sucking your dick" look from Dorian a minute ago, so what the hell. Max is a prick, and being one on purpose, and Bull knows how to handle that. "Want to join us?" he asks.

This gets him matching shocked looks from Dorian and Max, and it's hard to hold back a grin.

Dorian recovers first. "Max was just leaving," he says, glaring at his friend.

"Breakfast sounds great!" Max says, as if Dorian hadn't spoken. "I hope you're not planning on letting Dorian near it, though."

"Hey!" Dorian protests. "I'll thank you not to insult my cooking skills. At least I've never burned hard-boiled eggs."

"How does that even work?" Bull asks with a laugh, and gets a dirty look from Max.

"Never you mind," Max says, but Dorian says, "If you forget about them long enough, eventually all the water boils off."

"I was studying for a very important test," Max says stiffly.

"You fell asleep because you'd been up all night banging your new girlfriend," Dorian corrects with a malicious smile.

"I knew it was something important," Max says with an airy wave. "And don't worry about me, I'll get my own coffee."

He goes into the kitchen, and Dorian gives Bull a look, half pissed and half apologetic. "I can't believe you invited him to stay."

"He was staying anyway," Bull points out. "Might as well not fight it."

"A wise man," Max says from the kitchen doorway. Dorian jumps, but Bull, who'd known he was there, just smiles and reclaims his chair.

"Fuck you," Dorian says, which Bull is beginning to think is his default response to pretty much everything Max says.

"I love you, too," Max says cheerfully, raising his coffee cup in salute. "And I hope whatever's on the stove isn't breakfast, because I've never been a big fan of charcoal."

"Shit!" Dorian yelps, and dodges around Max into the kitchen.

Max takes the seat across the corner of the table from Bull and proceeds to scowl threateningly over the top of his mug. It might be more threatening and less amusing if Bull didn't outweigh Max by at least a hundred pounds. Though remembering Mae's story, Max might have the insanity advantage in an actual fight.

Not that Bull intends to have a fight if he can avoid it. He doesn't need to like Max to recognize how important it is not to try to get between Max and Dorian, no matter how pissed off Dorian is right this second. So while Dorian's in the kitchen and presumably out of earshot, Bull says quietly, "I know he's pissed at you, but it's nice to know someone's looking out for him." It even has the advantage of being true.

Max jerks in surprise, almost spilling his coffee. "Ah...yes, well...I worry about him sometimes." His scowl is gone, replaced by a frown of confusion. The conversation has clearly taken a hard left turn from Max's point of view. "He can be a little...he rushes into things without thinking them through sometimes."

"I'd noticed," Bull says dryly, which gets him another surprised look. He raises his eyebrow in return. "It's kind of hard to miss."

"I mean, not that I thought you would hurt him," Max hastens to say. It's a blatant lie, and they both know it. "I'm not, ummm...."

As amusing as it is to watch him flail around, Bull puts him out of his misery. "I look like a thug, I know."

And he does know it: even to someone who looks past the color of his skin (and there are plenty of people who can't manage that), he's too big, too strong, too scarred, and it's only gotten worse since he lost the eye. He can minimize the impact of his size by moving slowly, talking quietly, smiling often, but short of growing out his hair and styling it into something completely ridiculous, there's no way to hide the eyepatch. It's unclear if Max is unconsciously racist as well as consciously classist, but either way, Bull knows he probably checks every box on Max's mental list of People to Avoid in Dark Alleys, much less his list of People Not to Let into the House Unless the Furnace is Broken.

"Not a thug!" Max protests weakly. "You're just...ummm..."

 "A thug," Bull says, and grins. "I've got a mirror, I know what I look like. Don't try to blow sunshine up my ass."

Dorian, coming back from the kitchen with a plate of French toast, says, "I'm the only one who'll be putting anything up his ass."

Max chokes on his coffee and Bull bursts out laughing, even as his attention is caught by Dorian touching his bare shoulder on the way by. Without thinking too hard about it, Bull catches Dorian's hand before he can move away, and lays a quick kiss on the inside of his wrist. He looks up to see Dorian blushing furiously, his expression a study in contrasts as confusion and hope and longing chase each other across his face. When Bull strokes his thumb lightly across the spot he just kissed, Dorian inhales sharply.

"So," Max says brightly, and Dorian's face closes down again. Bull's aware that both his gesture and Dorian's reaction were too intimate for anywhere someone else could see them, but for a second, he wants to smack Max on the back of the head anyway.

"So," Dorian imitates, gently freeing his hand from Bull's grip.

"Any plans for today?" Max asks.

Dorian raises an eyebrow and smirks as he sets the plate on the table. "Not any I'm going to tell you about."

Max rolls his eyes. "You've been fucking all night. Don't tell me your ass isn't sore by now."

It's Bull's turn to choke on his coffee, but Dorian only smiles mysteriously and says, "There, there. I'll explain it when you're older."

"Thanks, old man," Max says, and something about their expressions implies this is a memorized call-and-response, words said so often that they no longer have their original meaning and instead are simply a reminder to each other of shared experiences.

Bull is willing to forgive Max a lot for the way Dorian's smiling right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a little while since I updated this one, but never fear, it has not been set aside. I'm brushing up against 80,000 words already written (just not necessarily what comes next chronologically), and if the weekend doesn't turn into a total disaster, I hope to get at least one more chapter posted in the next couple days.


	12. In Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your lights are on, but you're not home  
> Your mind is not your own  
> Your heart sweats, your body shakes  
> Another kiss is what it takes
> 
> You can't sleep, you can't eat  
> There's no doubt, you're in deep  
> Your throat is tight, you can't breathe  
> Another kiss is all you need
> 
> Robert Palmer, "Addicted to Love"

Breakfast isn't as much of a disaster as Dorian feared it would be. In fact, to Dorian's complete and utter shock, it's not a disaster at all. Whatever Bull and Max were discussing in his absence, they seem to have come to a truce. Max is no longer looking at Bull as if he's afraid Bull is going to pull out a gun and demand all his money, and Bull is no longer looking at Max as if Max is an uninvited houseguest who's now into week three of sleeping on the couch.

Dorian manages not to burn any more of the French toast, thank god, and by the way Bull inhales slice after slice, he can't have done too bad a job on it. When there are only two lonely pieces left and even Bull holds up his hands in surrender, Dorian gathers up the plates and takes them into the kitchen. This time, at least, he doesn't have to worry that he'll come back to bloodshed, and he's not paying a huge amount of attention until he turns from putting the plates in the sink and finds that Bull has followed him into the kitchen.

Not just into the kitchen, but right up to the sink. Dorian steps back, more out of surprise than anything, and Bull follows, blocking him in with a hand on the counter on either side of his hips. Bull hovers over him for a second, searching his face for something, before he lowers his head for a kiss.

He tastes like allspice and maple syrup, and Dorian chases both, his tongue exploring Bull's mouth as if they weren't doing exactly this an hour ago. Well, not exactly this. The kitchen counter is a new addition to the scene, and one with potential.

Bull apparently has the same thought, because he grabs Dorian by the backs of his thighs and lifts him onto it. It doesn't quite even out their heights, but it does line up their groins nicely. Dorian swallows a groan--the last thing he wants is for Max to come investigating--and wraps his legs around Bull's waist.

The noise Bull makes is so quiet Dorian feels it more than hears it, until he makes it again into Dorian's neck, right under his ear. "Does it turn you on," Bull murmurs, "knowing Max is out there, that he could walk in here any minute?"

It might be embarrassing that Bull reads him so easily, except Dorian can't think about much with Bull's lips moving against his neck.

"I could fuck you right here," Bull continues in that same low voice. "Put my hand over your mouth to keep you quiet and just fuck you nice and slow. How long do you think it would take before Max got curious what happened to us? Because I'd have to go slow to keep the noise down, but if we take too long, he's going to come looking."

Dorian wasn't aware it was possible to get this hard this often in less than twenty-four hours. Too many years of school, even if most of it was aimed toward a degree in law, have him trying to plot this on a graph of the standard refractory period for a male between the ages of-

Bull's face moves down, shoving the neck of Dorian's t-shirt out of the way so he can suck on the skin over his collarbone, and Dorian decides graphing can wait. Instead, he presses Bull's head against his shoulder, which Bull interprets correctly as a demand for more and bites him, almost too hard.

Almost. Dorian barely chokes back the groan this time, and then Bull puts a hand over his mouth, pressing tightly, and Dorian has to tighten his throat against other, louder noises. Bull's free hand somehow found its way under Dorian's shirt when he wasn't paying attention, and his thumb is now stroking lightly across one nipple. They're incredibly sensitive after last night, but Bull seems to know exactly how rough he can be.

If there were condoms in here, Dorian would be grabbing one right now. As it is, for the first time since he learned what an STI is, he's a little tempted to say to hell with it and let Bull fuck him bare, up against the counter while Max drinks his coffee in the other room, completely oblivious to-

"Well!" Max says cheerfully from the doorway, and Dorian jerks away from Bull hard enough to hit the cabinets above the counter. "I'll show myself out, shall I?"

"Fuck," Dorian mutters, rubbing the back of his head and glaring balefully at Max. Bull tries to move away, but Dorian holds on tighter with his legs, keeping him exactly where he is.

"Precisely," Max says. "I'll just leave you to it, since I'm reasonably sure this isn't a spectator sport."

"It can be," Bull whispers in Dorian's ear, too quiet for Max to hear. Dorian would be alarmed--sex with Max is definitely on the no list--except for the laugh in Bull's voice.

Dorian laughs despite himself, and Max gives him a look. "Whatever he said, please don't share."

"I wasn't planning on it," Dorian purrs, just to be an ass. Between his legs, Bull shifts minutely, as if he started to rock his hips but stopped himself, and it finally occurs to Dorian that Bull might be as turned on by the sound of his voice as he is by Bull's. That has...potential.

Max holds up both hands and turns his head away, as if from some horrific sight. "I know that look. I'm gone, call me later."

"Actually," Bull says apologetically, "you might as well stay. I've got to get to work."

Dorian considers a variety of unpleasant names he could aim at Max, but he knows that's not entirely fair. Even if Max hadn't turned up, they really wouldn't have had time for anything.

And there's always tonight.

The thought puts a smile on his face as he pushes Bull away so he can slide off the counter. "Tonight?" he murmurs, low enough that Max can't hear.

"Definitely," Bull says, then shocks Dorian by leaning over to kiss the back of his head, right where he banged it against the cabinet a minute ago. Before Dorian can say anything, he's gone, off to collect his stuff.

It doesn't take long, even including the full minute in which he pins Dorian to the bedroom wall and kisses him senseless. Dorian is decidedly light-headed by the time he closes the front door behind Bull, but he schools his expression back to something a little less embarrassing before rejoining Max at the table.

Max is back to looking serious, and Dorian's ass has barely connected with his chair when Max says, "All right, Pavus, look me in the eye and tell me you're fine."

"Do I look 'not fine' to you?" Dorian asks, picking up his coffee to take another sip.

"He had his hand over your mouth," Max says doubtfully. He reaches across the table to touch the scrape across Dorian's cheek. "And then there's this."

"Oh for-" Dorian doesn't know if he's amused or exasperated. "Really, Max? Do you _really_ need me to explain this to you?"

Max flushes, a rare sight indeed, but he also smiles. "No, probably not."

Dorian leans halfway over the table. "I'm fine," he says, staring with overblown intensity into Max's eyes. "Does that work?"

"Close enough," Max says. Then he grins. "I do hope you're planning to clean the counters when you're done tonight. That's not very sanitary."

"I have this thing called a bed," Dorian replies primly, though he has every intention of picking up where he and Bull left off, both literally and figuratively.

Max gives him a knowing look. "Yeah sure, Pavus. I don't need to know about your kinky sex-life, so long as you clean up before you serve me any more food out of that kitchen."

"You'll just have to wonder, won't you?" Dorian says with a smirk.

"I see a lot of takeout in our future. Or eating at my place."

"And when you have a kitchen worthy of the name, I'll consider it." Dorian glances at the clock, and asks pointedly, "How long are you planning on staying?"

"What's the difference? You don't have plans until tonight, anyway."

"Work," Dorian says with a shrug. "I can't even find the top of my desk anymore, not after this week." He drains the last of his coffee and makes a face. "I've been a little distracted, and no, not because of Bull." It's only half a lie, and it's plausible enough that Max will believe him. Time spent with his family is always a good excuse for being out of sorts.

"I still think you should have brought a kazoo and party hats to the funeral," Max says.

Dorian shakes his head and doesn't bother to grace that with an answer. "So unless you want to read SEC comment letters with me, I'm kicking you out in about thirty seconds."

Max gets his Serious Business face, and Dorian braces himself. "Be careful, all right?" Max says.

"I'm pretty sure we already covered this."

"I'm not talking physically," Max says with a frown. "I was wrong there, I'll admit it, but you've known the guy a week. At this point? He's looking to have fun and you're looking to pick out curtains."

Dorian raises a skeptical eyebrow, ignoring the way his skin goes cold. "Or you know, maybe I'm looking to have fun, too."

"I know you, Dorian," Max says. "You're a fucking serial monogamist. You don't know how to keep emotion out of it."

Which Max undeniably does. Of all Dorian's friends, straight and gay and in-between, Max has had more lovers than all the rest of them combined. The first year they roomed together, Dorian watched in awe as he worked his way through most of the cheerleaders and almost half of the football team. Their first two weeks, Dorian sat down to a new face across the kitchen table literally every single morning. He stopped trying to learn their names by the first Wednesday, and instead learned to sleep with earplugs in.

"Hell," Max adds, "you made the man French fucking toast. You never make me French toast."

"And will you look at the time!" Dorian says, ignoring the way his earlier light-headedness has turned to a leaden feeling in his chest. "Billable hours on Sunday always look so impressive to the other partners, and I think I hear my comment letters calling."

Max gives a frustrated sigh, but he doesn't say anything else on the subject.  Their goodbyes are stilted, and as soon as Dorian is alone, he rests his forehead against the top of the table while he tries to give himself a pep talk.

 _Fun. I can do fun._ That was the plan last Friday, after all, when he walked out of the club with Bull. Fun sex, no feelings. And maybe if anything about this week had even sort of approximated the plan, he would have managed it. But now? Now he remembers Bull carrying him into the house last week, tugging gently on his hand in the coffee shop two nights ago, whispering "I don't ever want to hurt you" last night.

Of course, there's a vast chasm between "I don't want to hurt you" and...and what? What does he even want from Bull? Not to pick out curtains, whatever Max might think. Dorian likes having absolute control over his space, and that was one of the few things he never ceded to Rilienus: this house was always his, and his alone. Rilienus might have stayed the night here occasionally, but Dorian went to him more often than not.

And really, he's known Bull a little over a week. Asking for more is definitely jumping the gun, and a mistake he's not going to make again. It's where he screwed up with Rilienus, wanting more and assuming Rilienus wanted the same thing, without bothering to find out. "It's hardly my fault you changed the rules without telling me," Rilienus said in the middle of that humiliating final argument, and he was right.

Dorian knows he wants more with Bull, but when he tries to pin his thoughts down into something less nebulous, they scatter like leaves. If he can't define what he wants, how can he expect Bull to give it to him?

Half an hour later, he still doesn't have an answer, so he gives up and starts to get ready for work.

###

Bull gets to the gym by eight--barely--and there are the usual minor crises to deal with first thing. After that, he's got several people lined up for personal training, and a few more crises, and between one thing and another, it's almost eleven before he sits down in his office to deal with paperwork.

He doesn't make it very far. While he waits for the computer to boot up, he leans back in his chair and goes over the last twelve hours in his head, laying everything out as if he's going to give a briefing on it. When he has all the pieces in order, he takes a mental step away and looks them over to see what picture they make.

It's not pretty. In fact, it's an emotional minefield, and looking at it, Bull becomes uncomfortably aware that the blast radius on a mis-step could reach for miles. All the things he was too upset or angry to analyze last night are now coming at him like machine-gun fire. The only bright spot in the whole night is that his anger didn't stop him from catching Dorian's fear, and even that memory makes him wince at how close he came to missing it.

The rest of that conversation is just one blow after another, and Bull can't decide what's the worst part: Dorian's "Can I touch you?" or his repeated apologies or his shocked "You knew!" As if he couldn't imagine someone _not_ taking advantage of him in that situation.

One more memory breaks free of the tangle, and Bull winces, because suddenly he does know the worst part: his own knee-jerk "Stop with the guilt trip." Shit. He's met enough people in abusive relationships--or fresh out of them--that he should have recognized the behavior when it slapped him in the face. Dorian might have been saying "I'm sorry" but Bull should have heard what he really meant.

"Please don't hurt me."

Fuck.

He's glad now that he cut Max a little slack at breakfast, because the guy might be a boundary-challenged asshole, but Bull is willing to bet he knows at least some of this. If their positions were reversed? Yeah, Bull would have been tempted to show up unannounced, though he likes to think he wouldn't actually have done it.

Foot against the base of his desk, he spins himself in idle half turns, paperwork forgotten. What started as some quick fun for one night has become a lot more serious, and a lot more than he bargained for. At the same time, it's a little disingenuous to pretend last night was somehow a revelation or a shocking turn of events. Aquinea's coldness, Mae's stories, Dorian's own reaction to the suggestion of name-calling during sex: all signs along the way. Signs Bull was aware of, too. He can't say that any of last night's disasters came out of the blue.

Which only makes him feel worse. The "should have" chorus is at full volume in his head, and he hates it. For one of the few times since the gym opened last year, he wishes he didn't have to be here. Now that he's not letting sex or emotion get in the way, he can see all the things they need to talk about, and he wants to be with Dorian, working this out.

If Dorian even wants to. Given time to think all this through, and no doubt with Max pointing out all the problems, Dorian might be in full retreat right now. Hard to blame him if so, because it's scaring the shit out of Bull and these aren't even his scars they're picking at. Bull's spent a long time learning to deflect anyone digging too deep into his head, and he suspects Dorian's learned the same lessons.

Hell, he doesn't suspect; he knows. He watched it in action, after all, at the hospital and at the funeral.

Under the papers somewhere, his phone buzzes, and though the sound isn't loud, it startles him so much that he bangs his knee on the desk. Swearing, he slaps his hands down on the desk until he finds the right lump and can pull out his phone to look at it.

Dorian. And the text says only, _Re: Your question about subspace._

Bull's stomach squeezes. Which question?

Before he can ask, or figure out the answer for himself, the phone buzzes with another text from Dorian: _Riker._

Riker? Riker who?

Then it clicks in his head, and surprise makes him laugh out loud. _To Picard?_ he texts back.

There's no immediate answer, but that's okay, because it gives Bull some time to breathe after that surge of adrenaline. It also gives him time to think about why he reacted so strongly to the first text, or to any of this. As Dorian keeps reminding him, they've known each other for barely more than a week. Why should it matter if they never see each other again? Fun was had, and no promises were made.

He picks through his memories in search of the answer, because it's a cheat to say that he's only concerned about losing out on some of the best sex of his life. There's way more to it than that, and he tries very hard not to lie to himself, even if he doesn't share with anyone else.

Out of everything he and Dorian have done and said to each other, the memory that keeps floating to the top is a simple one from this morning: Dorian's hand in his, the skin of his wrist warm under Bull's lips, his eyes wide with emotions he probably never meant to reveal. No matter how Bull tries to move past that memory, it keeps coming back, and eventually he has to acknowledge it, and the answer that comes with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, has it really been almost a month since I updated this one? Sorry! Shouldn't be so long before the next update, though. I've been out of town (without internet) for the past week, and I got a lot of writing done. Chapter 13 should be done soon, and chapter 14 has been written for a while.


	13. At This Point In My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point in my life  
> I've done so many things wrong I don't know if I can do right  
> If you put your trust in me I hope I won't let you down  
> If you give me a chance I'll try
> 
> You see it's been a hard road the road I'm traveling on  
> And if I take your hand I might lead you down the path to ruin  
> I've had a hard life I'm just saying it so you'll understand  
> That right now, right now, I'm doing the best I can  
> At this point in my life
> 
> Tracy Chapman, "At This Point In My Life"

The Lavellan & Cadash offices are quiet on a Sunday morning, everyone else either working from home or actually taking the day off. Dorian queues up some music on his phone and dives into the work that's piled up over the last week, determined to make some real progress.

After a few false starts, he gets into it, racking up several billable hours before he stops for lunch. While he eats his sandwich, he glances at his phone. There's a text from Max about some party, and a text from Bull that just says, _To Picard?_

Dorian smiles, obscurely relieved, and texts back, _Who else?_

He starts to set the phone down, then remembers Max's text and flips back to it. It doesn't make much sense even on a re-read, and after a third try, Dorian gives up and calls Max.

"What party?" he asks when Max picks up.

There's a brief silence on the other end before Max says, "Haven't listened to your messages, have you?"

"Do I ever?"

"Go listen," Max says, and hangs up.

"Fuck you," Dorian mutters to the empty air, then dials his voicemail.

There are a half dozen old messages from various people who don't know him well enough to know not to bother, and he's getting annoyed with Max's mysteriousness by the time he gets to the last, most recent message.

Just the sound of his mother's voice is enough to make him tense, and her message only winds him tighter. A birthday party. For him and Max. What the actual fuck?

He considers and discards a number of responses, but in the end, he puts on his I-don't-give-a-fuck attitude and calls her back.

"Hello?" she says when she answers, as if she doesn't know perfectly well who's on the other end.

"Mother," he says, letting himself get pulled into her game for now. "I heard your message."

"Lovely," she says in her smooth politician's voice. "What day would be best for you?"

"Is there a reason you've suddenly decided to take an interest in my life again, after all these years?" He's careful to keep his tone as smooth as hers, at odds with his aggressive words.

A little to his surprise, there's a pause on her end before she says, "It will be your thirtieth birthday, and that warrants some celebration. It would also allow us to celebrate your promotion to partner."

It would allow her to show him off to her friends, or at least, to show off the parts of his life that are advantageous to her. Right. "I already have plans," he says.

"Dorian." She might not have been a good mother, but she still knows how to use that voice that only mothers seem to have, that they only use when their children are proving to be a grave disappointment.

"Mother," he says, in his best imitation of her tone. He's not the only one doing the disappointing, after all.

"Allow me this celebration, if you please." She still sounds coolly distant, but there's a thread of something in her voice that reminds Dorian forcibly that she buried her husband yesterday.

He chokes, then, on everything hanging between them: sixteen years trying to be their perfect son, four years of screaming fights, and ten years of silence broken by Halward's death. Thirty years living in the shadow of what they want him to be. There are no words to encapsulate that, or if there are, Dorian doesn't know them.

"You may bring your friend, if you wish," Aquinea says. It's a small consolation, but on top of everything else, it's more than he can withstand.

"All right," he says, not caring if he sounds like a sulky child, not sure himself how he feels about any of this. "The thirtieth?"

"The thirtieth is fine," she says. "Will you check with Maxwell and ascertain that he would be available?"

He's tempted to make her do it herself, but if she does, Max will almost certainly say no. If Dorian has to suffer through this, then so does Max. "Fine," he says. "Was there anything else?"

"Not at present," she says. "If there are any other guests you would like to invite, please let my assistant know. She'll make sure they're apprised of the location and appropriate dress."

The last part almost makes him laugh, though of course she didn't intend it to be funny. "I'll do that," he says.

Once they're off the phone, he stares into space for a long time, fingers drumming on the top of his desk. Christ. A birthday party, a la his mother. Everything will be perfect, except for the unfortunate fact that one of the guests of honor is a queer. Not that his mother would ever be so crass as to use that word, but the sentiment will be clear enough anyway.

And Bull. Now that he's not distracted by talking to his mother, it occurs to him that inviting Bull is almost more fraught than going to the party in the first place. The exact nature of their relationship is so muddled already, Dorian can't even guess if it's appropriate to ask Bull if he wants to come. What if he says no?

What if he says yes?

Fuck.

If he thought it would help knock his thoughts into order, Dorian would smack his forehead on his desk, but he suspects that all it would accomplish would be to give him a mark on his forehead to accent the one on his cheek. He spent some time this morning thinking up a good excuse for the rug-burn, but explanations will only get more awkward and improbable the more injuries he has to explain.

An email flashes up in the bottom of his computer screen, and Dorian shoves his personal problems back to one side. It might be Sunday, but he's at work, and work is what he needs to be doing. He can deal with his personal life later. Maybe if he ignores it long enough, it'll go away?

It's a little easier to immerse himself in the work this time, and he's actually so absorbed that it isn't until his phone buzzes that he realizes it's almost seven. As soon as he's aware of the time, his stomach and bladder start an immediate chorus of protests, which his neck and shoulders join as soon as he starts to straighten.

He leans back in his chair, in serious danger of overbalancing, and reads Bull's text, the source of the buzz that brought his attention to the time: _Almost done for tonight. Want to get some dinner?_

It shouldn't be a loaded question, but it brings back all his fears from earlier. Before indecision can freeze him, Dorian texts back, _I'm at work. Meet me here, and we'll get something at the Thai restaurant down the street?_ There's no one else here right now, so it isn't as if Dorian will have to try to explain to his co-workers a relationship he doesn't fully understand.

Bull's answer comes almost immediately: _See you at 1930?_

It takes Dorian a second to translate that into 7:30 PM, but then he replies with, _Sure,_ and the address for his office.

That doesn't give him long to wrap up the last few items on his list, and he's not quite done by the time Bull calls him from the parking lot. It's tempting to just leave what he's working on, but the client asked for a response by last Friday. While it's an unspoken agreement that "five on Friday" really means "before we get in on Monday," that still means he needs to finish it tonight.

Rilienus would have expected him to drop everything immediately, but--as he keeps reminding himself--Bull isn't Rilienus.

"I need another twenty minutes or so," he says to Bull as he leads the way through the building, back to his office. He manages not to make it a question or an apology.

"No problem," Bull says.

Dorian pauses and turns to look back at him, trying to gauge his sincerity, but there's no hint that he's annoyed. If anyone is, it's Dorian, angry at himself that he can't seem to shake Rilienus out of his head no matter how hard he tries.

Back in his office, Dorian tries to finish the last few paragraphs of his response to the client, but it's hard to concentrate with Bull lounging in one of his visitor chairs. It doesn't matter that Bull is apparently engrossed in something on his phone; Dorian is almost painfully aware of him, and of how long it's taking to finish.

As a result, he spends almost forty minutes instead of twenty, and he cringes internally when he glances at the clock. "Sorry," he says to Bull.

He gets a quick smile in return. "I'm good, but if I'm making you crazy, I can wait for you in the car."

"Only if you want to," Dorian says, hitting print. "I'm almost done at this point. Really almost done. I just need to make a couple copies, and then we can go."

"Works for me," Bull says. He's still smiling, a smile that gets warmer when Dorian stands and stretches to ease the kinks in his back.

He may be at work, but there's no one else here, so Dorian extends the stretch, turning it into a small show for Bull's benefit. A show Bull definitely appreciates, based on the way he leans forward very slightly, his gaze lingering on the sliver of skin revealed where Dorian's shirt rides up.

"Didn't you have copies to make?" Bull asks, his eye still on Dorian's bared stomach. "Because if so, you'd better go make them."

Dorian can't resist teasing a little more, running his fingers along his stomach right above the waistband of his jeans, but when Bull makes a grab for him, he dodges. "I promised you dinner, first," he says with a grin. "And you'll need to keep your strength up."

"Got plans for tonight, do you?" Bull asks.

"Definitely," Dorian purrs, looking at him through half-lidded eyes. This is familiar territory, no matter how uncertain he is about everything else.

Bull makes another desultory grab for him, and Dorian sidesteps again. "Does your Thai place do carryout?" Bull asks.

"No, but it's quick," Dorian says.

"Good," Bull says. "Now go make your copies before I pass out."

"Are you that hungry?" Dorian asks with exaggerated innocence. "Because I have some crackers in my desk, if you want them."

"Hungry? Yes. For crackers? Not even a little bit." He points toward the door. "Copies. Go."

"I'll be right back," Dorian promises.

"I'm not going anywhere," Bull says. His voice has lost some of its teasing edge, and his face is too serious, and suddenly they're no longer playing a silly game.

Dorian swallows hard and retreats before he says something he'll regret. Until he can explain his own feelings, he really needs to not start that conversation.

Fighting with the copy machine takes his mind off everything else: halfway through his job, it runs out of both paper and staples. Since he's not usually the one making copies, it takes him a small eternity to find the supplies, and another small eternity to figure out how to replace the staple cartridge in the machine. In the end, it would have been quicker to staple the damn things by hand, but stubbornness won't let him abandon it.

Well, stubbornness and embarrassment. He can only imagine the look on his assistant's face if he leaves her a sticky note asking her to do this for him.

All in all, it takes him almost ten minutes to finish, and he's scowling down at his copies as he walks back to his office. It isn't until he's almost to the doorway that he realizes he's been hearing voices for a while. One is definitely Bull.

The other is Edric Cadash.

Oh, shit.

 _Of course_ Edric needed something from the office at eight o'clock on a Sunday evening, and of course Dorian needed longer than he should have to finish, and of course he left Bull alone in his office right as Edric was arriving. Of _fucking_ course. At least both Bull and Edric sound calm, and as Dorian reaches his office, he even hears Edric laugh. That laugh pulls him up short just as reaches the doorway, and he blinks in confusion as he tries to sort out the conversation.

The gold standard. They're discussing the gold standard, a conversational topic that Edric loves to lure junior members of the firm into whenever the opportunity presents itself; lure them in and then twist them into knots with their own arguments. Sometimes it seems like Dorian made partner as fast as he did because he was so good at evading the subject completely, no matter how hard Edric tried.

Bull, rather than trying to dodge, has apparently embraced the conversation whole-heartedly, and is currently defending the position that gold is as much fiat money as any other currency. Defending it well, too. Dorian leans against the door jamb, bemused, and lets them finish rather than provide the rescue Bull clearly doesn't need.

Edric notices him soon enough and interrupts his own counter-argument. "Ah, there you are!"

"Here I am," Dorian says. It's not exactly a witty rejoinder, but he's still taken aback by their debate. "Did you need me for something?"

"No, no," Edric says. "I just saw your light on and came by to see what you were working on. We can catch up tomorrow." He gives Bull a nod. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

"You, too," Bull says.

Dorian moves aside to let Edric pass, trying not to stare at Bull. When they're alone in his office again, he says, "Well, that was interesting."

"What, didn't think I was smart enough to know what the gold standard was?" Bull asks. He's smiling, but there's a challenge to it, too.

"It doesn't have anything to do with smart," Dorian says, coming close enough to touch Bull's face. "I know at least two attorneys in this company who couldn't even spell 'fiat money,' let alone explain its relation to the gold standard." His thumb traces the curve of Bull's cheek beneath the eyepatch. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

Behind him, someone clears their throat, and Dorian jerks his hand away, whirling around to find Edric, who looks almost as embarrassed as Dorian feels.

"Sorry," Dorian blurts out, though he's not sure what he's apologizing for.

Edric waves this away. "I got back to my office and remembered what I wanted to ask you. Did you have any luck on that subsequent event disclosure?"

"I just finished it," Dorian says. "Do you want to look at it?"

"That was quick," Edric says with an approving nod. "Email it to me, and I'll look at it tomorrow. I thought you'd have questions about it, but I should know better by now, shouldn't I?"

There's nothing Dorian can say to the second part that won't sound like bragging, so he just says, "I'll send it before I leave."

"Good," Edric says. His eyes go to Bull, then back to Dorian, and he hesitates a second before he says, "Will we see you both at the cookout?"

Dorian freezes, knowing exactly what assumption Edric is making about his relationship with Bull and unsure how to straighten this out without making all three of them deeply uncomfortable.

"I don't know," he says at last. "We'll have to see."

Edric frowns. "No one here cares that you're gay, Dorian. You must know that by now."

"I know," he says, almost choking on a nervous laugh. "But Bull runs a gym, and I don't think it closes for Memorial Day." He doesn't look at Bull as he talks, unsure what he might see, or even what he wants to see. "All those people who want to work out before they gorge," he adds, trying to make a joke.

"Actually," Bull says, "my guys have already told me they plan to kick me out if I show up on Memorial Day."

"Perfect!" Edric says while Dorian struggles not to gape at both of them. "I look forward to continuing our discussion."

And he's gone again, leaving Dorian staring after him for several long seconds.

This time, he closes the door before he turns back to Bull. "You don't have to, you know. I mean, I realize I sort of dragged you into the fake boyfriend routine with my family, but it's not-"

Bull's hand on his wrist stops him. "I'm good," he says. Even sitting, he's tall enough that they're almost eye to eye, and Dorian finds he can't look away. "Actually, I was thinking this morning that I...wouldn't mind if we dropped the fake part of that. If we made this something a little more..."

He's clearly groping for the right word, and Dorian says the first one that comes to mind. "Exclusive?" His voice is shaking, and his hands would be if he didn't have them clenched into fists.

"Close enough," Bull says. He smiles briefly, a flash that's there and gone in a blink. "But if that's not something you want, I'm cool with it."

Dorian has to make three tries before he can say, "I want." He steps forward to stand between Bull's knees, laying his hands carefully on Bull's shoulders. "I couldn't stop thinking about it this morning, but I didn't know if it was what you wanted, not when we've know each other...what? A week?"

"Something like that," Bull says, resting his hands on Dorian's hips. "I just...I need you to do something for me."

Dorian swallows his first reply--"anything"--and goes for a less dramatic, "Oh?"

"When there's something you need, or want, tell me. Please. I can't do this if I have to second-guess myself all the time."

"You make it sound so easy," Dorian says. His voice is no longer shaking, at least, even if his hands are.

Bull hesitates, looking at him, and Dorian's chest feels like it's trapped in a vise. "Will you try?" Bull asks. "And if I ask, will you answer me honestly?"

Now it's Dorian's turn to hesitate. He wants to look away, but he forces himself not to. "I'll try," he whispers. "But I...I'm not very good at it. My last relationship...well, second-to-last...fell apart because of that."

"How so?"

"I...changed the rules on him. I wanted more, and I thought he did, too, but I didn't ask, and I should have, and...it didn't end well."

Bull's face is carefully blank, and fear makes Dorian babble. "Besides, I don't know what I want, so how can I tell you? Max...Max accused me of wanting to pick out curtains with you, and that's not what I want, but I don't want to be just...fuck buddies either, or whatever we are."

At last Bull moves, one hand cupping Dorian's cheek, the other curling around the back of his head. "I don't really know what I want, either," he admits, thumb brushing Dorian's lips. "I loved the army, but I spent a lot of time deployed, and I watched a lot of guys fuck up multiple marriages because they didn't understand how hard it was going to be, her staying home while he was in a war zone for ten months. I didn't want to do that, so mostly it meant I fucked whoever was around, for as long as we were both around. Which is fun, but it's not...not what I want with you."

"It's not what I want, either." Dorian kisses the pad of his thumb. "But I don't know that I really want to venture into mutual domesticity at this point." He sounds like a pompous ass, but he's too nervous to find better words, and Bull knows what he means.

"But there's got to be room between 'hey, you're cute, let's fuck' and 'hey, you're cute, let's pick out curtains', right?" Bull's fingers rub lightly against Dorian's scalp. "Maybe there's space for us in there, while we figure this out."

 _Us._ Such a small word, to carry so much weight. "Maybe," he says, and tries to put everything he's feeling into that word, so that it's hopeful rather than skeptical. 

"I'm game if you are," Bull says.

As declarations of emotion go, it would probably seem lukewarm to some, but it's exactly what Dorian wants right now. _Let's try it, and see what happens._ It's not a lifetime commitment, just a promise to make an effort. "I'm game," he says.

That incredible feeling of lightness is back, what he felt this morning when Bull kissed him good-bye; not just the absence of pain, but real happiness. Dorian knows he's grinning like a fool, but Bull is smiling back at him, and there's no mockery in him, and right now, Dorian doesn't care about anything else.

###

Bull, it turns out, is more than capable of convincing the Thai place down the street to do take-out, despite the fact that they normally don't, which means Dorian gets to eat his dinner in the quiet and comfort of his own house. By the time he gets done changing into a pair of running pants and a t-shirt, Bull has set the table and decanted the food onto real plates.

Looking at all of it, Dorian almost abandons his own half-formed plan, but Bull catches sight of his face before he can control his expression. "Talk to me," Bull says. "What's that face mean?"

Well, Dorian did just agree, less than an hour ago, to tell the truth if asked. "How do you feel about eating in the living room?"

"On your incredibly uncomfortable sofa?"

"It's not that bad," Dorian objects. "And I'll make it worth your while."

Bull smiles. "Okay. You sit, I'll bring the food."

In the two minutes it takes Bull to move everything from dining room table to coffee table, Dorian begins to see what he means about the sofa. The seat is just a little too short, the back just a little too stiff. How has he missed that all these years? It's not like the sofa is new.

"All right," he says as Bull sets down the last container. "You're right, it's uncomfortable. In my own defense, I almost never sit on it."

"Neither does anyone else," Bull mutters, but he takes a seat of his own, shifting a bit as if trying to find a comfortable position. Or perhaps a less uncomfortable one.

When he stops fidgeting, Dorian picks up one of the plates and straddles his thighs. Bull's hands settle comfortably on his hips, fingers just brushing against his ass. "You're making a pretty good argument," Bull says.

"I'm very persuasive," Dorian says, then pulls the plate away when Bull reaches for it. "Let me do it?"

That gets him a blink, but Bull doesn't say anything out loud, just slouches into the sofa and puts his hand back on Dorian's hip.

It might be one of the best meals Dorian's ever eaten, and it has nothing to do with the food, no matter how good. Bull cooperates enthusiastically, sucking on his fingers and stealing kisses whenever Dorian isn't paying attention. Within a few minutes, Dorian has him shirtless, which makes it easy to lick the hollow of his throat and suck on his nipples between bites of food. Bull's fingers flex on his hips as if he wants to move them, but he doesn't, letting Dorian do what he wants.

When they've eaten everything, Dorian stands, despite Bull's attempts to hold on to him, and gathers up their dishes. "I'll be right back," he promises over his shoulder with a smirk. "Unless you want to keep me company while I do the dishes."

Dorian doesn't look back again, but he smiles to himself when he hears the sofa creak. As he sets the dishes in the sink, Bull says from the kitchen doorway, "This seems kind of familiar."

"It does, doesn't it?" Dorian says. He turns and boosts himself up on the counter, not bothering to hide his grin. "Except I'm sure you weren't that far away."

Bull's eye darkens, and Dorian feels heat spreading through him, heat that intensifies when Bull steps between his knees and lifts Dorian's legs to wrap them around his waist. "This seem right to you?" Bull asks, his voice a low murmur.

"Almost," Dorian says. He tightens his legs and grips the back of Bull's neck with both hands, pulling their mouths together slowly, watching Bull's face as the distance between them shrinks. A little to his surprise, Bull doesn't try to take control, only waits patiently while Dorian leans closer and closer. His fingers are digging in to the backs of Dorian's thighs, just shy of his ass and the edge of the counter, and Dorian squeezes his legs tighter.

Close enough to brush their mouths together without quite kissing, Dorian pauses, enjoying that moment of anticipation. Bull doesn't lean forward, though his lips do twitch in a brief smile that Dorian feels more than sees.

Only once that last distance is gone does Bull move, pulling Dorian forward to grind against him, mouth opening to let their tongues curl around each other. Dorian stretches up into the kiss, wanting to get as close as possible, to feel his lips crushed against his teeth and his cock rubbing against Bull's. There are too many layers of clothing between them, but when he reaches for Bull's zipper, Bull grabs his hand and tries to redirect it to Dorian's cock.

It would be easy enough to go along, to stroke himself or let Bull stroke him, but their conversation this evening has only made him even more determined to do something other than lie here--or sit here, in this case--while Bull gets them both off. So rather than let Bull move his hand, he pushes back, looping his fingers in the waistband of Bull's jeans to hold on.

He kisses his way along Bull's jaw to his ear, or as close to it as he can get. "I admit," he murmurs, "that it took me longer than it should to figure this out, but I do get there eventually. You get off on making other people feel good."

Bull makes a strange noise, halfway between a laugh and a groan.

"That first night? I thought you were joking when you said it, but that really was your plan, wasn't it? You were going to get me off three times before you came once."

"I like the anticipation," Bull says, and he sounds like he's having trouble breathing.

"I noticed," Dorian says. "But did it occur to you that maybe other people might be the same way? That maybe I like doing things for you." He frees his hand from Bull's now-loose grasp and finishes unzipping his jeans, sliding his hand inside to cup Bull's dick. "I like touching you."

"Not complaining," Bull says, both of his hands back on Dorian's thighs. Those hands squeeze hard when Dorian rubs his thumb across the head of his cock. "Really not complaining."

Dorian leans back a little as he shoves Bull's jeans down; with Bull controlling everything they've done, he hasn't actually gotten to look at Bull in anything other than the dim lighting of his bedroom last weekend, and he wants to see Bull's cock when he's awake enough to remember it later. It's not out of proportion with the rest of his body, but it's heavy and thick and hot in Dorian's hand, and looking at it sends lust shooting through his gut. He doesn't try to hide that when he looks up to meet Bull's eye. "Tell me what you want," he whispers.

"Keep looking at me like that," Bull says, half laughing, but Dorian doesn't think he's actually kidding.

"Not a problem," Dorian says. He lets go of Bull's neck and reaches over to the cabinet on his left while his other hand continues to stroke slowly all the way up and down Bull's cock.

Distracted, Bull's eye follows his reaching hand, then his eyebrow goes up as Dorian manages to snag the bottle of cooking oil. "That doesn't go well with condoms."

"If you can think that clearly, then I'm not doing something right," Dorian says. "And I wasn't planning on doing anything that needs a condom." He leans forward again to suck on one of Bull's nipples, then moves up his chest to lick at the hollow of his throat. "I want to watch your face while I stroke you off."

"Is that what you were thinking about earlier?" Bull asks, his voice a little rough. "When you were teasing me in your office?"

"Maybe," Dorian admits, without looking up. Opening the bottle one-handed isn't easy, but he gets it eventually, and Bull takes a quick breath as Dorian's hand begins to stroke the oil along his length.

Once his hand is moving easily, he leans in again and says, "Or maybe I was thinking about that promise you made me on Friday." He twists his fingers, teasing right under the head of Bull's cock. "Maybe I was thinking about being back in _your_ office, you fucking me over your desk with all those people walking by, oblivious."

"We do that, you'll have to be quiet." Bull's thumbs stroke along the insides of his thighs. "Or was that part of the plan, too? My hand over your mouth while I fuck you? Not sure my hand would be enough."

"Maybe not over the desk, then," Dorian says, glad his face is hidden now against Bull's neck. "You could shove me down on my knees and fuck my mouth, all the way in until I can't breathe." This is the dark little fantasy that crept into his head last night, before that strange floating drowned out all thought. He's embarrassed that it turns him on, but it does, and if he says it now, just one fantasy among several, then later he can deny that this was the one he actually wouldn't mind trying.

"That's the one thing we haven't done," Dorian says, and then his hand and brain both hitch for a second, because he did try to suck Bull's dick, and the memory of that night slams him back down from his high.

Before he can shove it aside, get his body back in motion even if his mind is screaming, Bull cups his cheek in one hand and turns to murmur against his ear, "You okay?"

Dorian starts to nod, remembers his promise to answer honestly if Bull asked, and hesitates. "Mostly?" he says after a second. "I don't want to stop."

"You sure?"

"Very," Dorian says, shaking off the last of the memory as he starts to stroke again. "It's nothing, I just can't turn my brain off most of the time."

Bull's fingers rub over the short hair behind his ear. "I noticed." The teasing is gentle, and Dorian smiles. "But you know you don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

"I want to," Dorian says. He leans back, forcing himself to stop hiding his face so Bull can see how sincere he is. "God, do I want to suck you later, down on my knees with your hands in my hair."

"I was thinking about that last night," Bull says, and his breathing isn't as steady as it was, "about how good it would feel. When you were sucking on my fingers, I came so damn close to just tossing everything else out the window and fucking your mouth."

"Next time?" Dorian murmurs. "Do it." He doesn't know what expression is on his face, but whatever it is, it makes Bull suck in a hard breath.

The hands on his thighs squeeze harder for just a second, and Dorian can actually see him willing them to unclench. "Fuck," Bull mutters. "I'm not going to be able to stay standing if you keep looking at me like that."

"Then you're in trouble," Dorian says. "Because I'm not sure I can stop." He looks down at his hand, at Bull's cock thrusting up between his fingers, then back up. "I don't want to stop."

"I don't want you to." Bull's voice is low, his muscles trembling, and Dorian moves his hand faster, his eyes locked on Bull's face.

As mind-blowing as it's been, everything Bull has done to him, Dorian's never had a chance to concentrate on him in those final moments as orgasm hits him. He watches it now, feeling an echo of it under his own skin as Bull's eye closes and his mouth opens and the muscles in his legs flex as he comes, hot and wet, into Dorian's hand.

After a long moment, Bull's body relaxes and his neck bends to drop his forehead against Dorian's. He doesn't look like he's aware of anything going on around them, but when Dorian shifts to touch his own cock, Bull grabs his wrist. "Give me a second," he says between breaths.

"Don't worry about it," Dorian says, a little breathless himself.

Bull's thumb strokes lightly across the inside of his wrist. "I like worrying about you." Without opening his eye, his mouth searches out Dorian's for another kiss, this one lazy and slow. "I just need a minute so I can concentrate on something besides keeping my knees straight."

"I can be patient," Dorian says, in a long-suffering voice that makes Bull laugh. "For a little while, anyway. Especially if it means you don't fall over and crack your skull."

Keeping one hand on Bull's waist, he grabs the towel hanging from the handle of the fridge and wipes off his hands and Bull's dick. The jeans present a problem, though. "I might not have thought this one through all the way," Dorian admits, looking at the oil stain around Bull's zipper.

Bull cranes his neck to see, then laughs. "If it doesn't wash out, I'll just buy another pair. Might keep this pair as a reminder, though."

"I can't decide if that's sexy, or weird," Dorian says, then gasps in surprise as Bull lifts him off the counter and sets him on his feet. He's still adjusting to the abrupt change when Bull spins him around so they're back to front, one of Bull's hands already shoving his track pants out of the way while the other...

The other clamps down over Dorian's mouth, pinning his head to Bull's chest, and Dorian's whole body catches fire. He twists against the hand across his face, just to feel it tug on his skin and make the scrape on his cheek sting.

Bull murmurs into his hair, "Hands behind your back. You want me to stop, just move them."

Stopping is the last thing Dorian wants him to do, so he does exactly as ordered, sliding his open hands between their bodies so his palms end up against Bull's stomach. The bare skin is warm, and he can't resist spreading his fingers a little wider to feel the muscles flexing as Bull tightens his grip.

Bull's fingers on his cock are slick with oil, and when did he manage that? Not that it really matters, not so long as he continues those long, slow strokes, fingers and palm teasing Dorian's cock until he's groaning into the hand over his mouth, heedless of the noise he's making. They aren't in public, after all, and he can make as much noise as he wants, and right now, all the scalding heat inside him is burning its way out through his skin, escaping in inarticulate pleas as he ruts into Bull's fist while Bull murmurs encouragement into his hair.

His back bows and his fingers scrabble for purchase as the burning reaches white-hot levels and he comes, thrashing against Bull's grip, his head immobilized against Bull's shoulder as he desperately sucks in air through his nose.

By the time he knows where he is again, his mouth is free and Bull's hand is rubbing gentle circles over his chest, his breath warm against Dorian's cheek. "If I let go, can you stand?" Bull asks.

"Probably," Dorian mutters, looping his fingers awkwardly through the belt loops on Bull's jeans. "But you could hold on a little longer anyway. Just in case."

"Just in case," Bull repeats solemnly, his hand warm against Dorian's skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the non-Americans: Memorial Day (last Monday in May) is supposed to be a day to remember soldiers who've died (also generally celebrated by cookouts, because it's finally warm enough, and going to the pool, even though it's usually not warm enough). But it just made sense to me that Bull's folks would be like, "Nope, you're not coming to work that day!" Also, because plot reasons. :)


	14. Bad to Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All right! *rubs hands* So my deepest apologies for another long delay. I got sucked into Tumblr, and wow, that's a crack habit and a half. And then, what was supposed to be a short chapter took on a life of its own. What's now chapter 18 (or at least, most of it) has been written for a long time, but I decided to slip in Dorian meeting the Chargers before the Memorial Day cookout. It was supposed to be one chapter. On the short side.
> 
> It...uhhhh...grew a bit. *smiles awkwardly* So here, have five chapters at once!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said, “I toil beneath the curse,  
> But, knowing not the universe,  
> I fear to slide from bad to worse.
> 
> “And that, in seeking to undo  
> One riddle, and to find the true,  
> I knit a hundred others new:
> 
> Tennyson, "Two Voices" (and thank you, Dr. Seuss, for ensuring that any rhyming poem immediately makes me expect drawings of fanciful critters)  
> *****************************************  
> While I'm rambling, join me in a moment of art appreciation. You know that high-pitched shriek you normally only hear from delighted two-year-olds? Yeah, I might have made that noise.
> 
> [Bull and Dorian, making out in the kitchen](http://beardedwolfbabies.tumblr.com/post/130690960882/power-of-two-by-dragongliesandkatydids-chapter)
> 
> [Bull's scar](http://beardedwolfbabies.tumblr.com/post/130696408392/also-for-today-did-this-doodle-of-humanbull-bull)
> 
> [And one that wasn't specifically for this fic, but that fits it too well to leave out.](http://beardedwolfbabies.tumblr.com/post/130289794667/hey-so-heres-a-stupid-modern-age-au-thing-i-did) I can't decide which I love more, their feet or Dorian's bed-head.
> 
> And now I'm done rambling.

On Mondays, Bull works late even by Dorian's workaholic standards, but he takes a dinner break right as Dorian is leaving work at eight, and while the gym isn't exactly on Dorian's way home, it's not _that_ far out of the way, either.

They hit the same coffee shop as last time, and Bull guides him, hand in the small of his back, to the same chairs in the same semi-secluded corner. Not that their conversation this time requires privacy, but Dorian isn't going to object to the location, especially not with Bull's knee bumping gently against his.

"So tell me about this party your mother's throwing," Bull says.

"You don't have to go, you know," Dorian says for the fifth--or possibly sixth--time.

"I know," Bull replies, the same as he did the last four--or possibly five--times Dorian tried to let him off the hook. "But unless you want me to stay home, I want to go with you. And you said Mae will be there, so that's one person who won't be trying to glare holes through me. We can bond over the cocktail sauce, or some shit."

The image of Mae and Bull eating shrimp and verbally skewering the other guests makes Dorian smile; he's almost looking forward to the party at this point, and that's a strange feeling indeed. "Max will be there, too, though he might be a little on edge."

"Is anybody there _not_ going to be on edge?"

"My mother," Dorian answers instantly, and gets an opaque look from Bull.

"I dunno, she might be a little tense, too."

"Unlikely," Dorian says dismissively. "But what did you want to know?"

"Oh, just basic shit. Dress code?"

"Whatever you want to wear is fine," Dorian says with a wave.

This time, Bull's look is amused. "If you want to fuck with your mother's head by having me show up in jeans, just say so, but at least warn me that's what you're doing."

"What? No, I wouldn't do that." Dorian takes a thoughtful sip of his coffee. "All right, I would do that. But to her, not to you."

"So I should wear...what?"

"Khakis?" Dorian hazards. "It's probably what I'll be wearing. Not a suit, that's for sure." Thank god his mother had enough sense not to try for some sort of white-tie dinner party.

"Khakis," Bull repeats with a firm nod. "Right. I've probably got a pair somewhere."

Dorian hides a blink in his sandwich, caught out by his own assumptions once again. "Or anything that's not jeans or shorts, really."

"You remember that I work at a gym, right?" Bull asks. He doesn't look particularly put out, though.

"I could come over tomorrow night and look through your closet." He schools his face to his most innocent expression. "It might take me a while, though. You'll probably have to try on several different options."

"There are easier ways to get me naked," Bull says, leaning over to steal a kiss. "I can make you a list."

"I think I've been doing just fine on my own."

"No complaints here," Bull agrees. He steals another kiss, and this time his tongue flicks out to touch Dorian's lower lip, very briefly, before he settles back in his chair. "No complaints at all, but tomorrow night's a no-go. I've got a game with some friends."

"Game?"

"We play football on Tuesday nights." He gives Dorian a look from the corner of one eye. "Don't know what you might have planned, but you could join us, if you want."

"What time?" Not that he's ever had much interest in football, but he can think of worse ways to spend an evening than watching Bull run around on a field, possibly shirtless.

"Seventeen hundred hours."

Dorian can already tell that he's going to have to learn to think in military time if he doesn't want to spend a lot of time remembering to subtract twelve and not ten. In this case, though... "I can't," he says regretfully. "I've got a meeting with a client at five-thirty."

"Come by after then. There's an IHOP across the street from the park, and we usually grab dinner there."

"God, I can't think of the last time I was in an IHOP," Dorian murmurs. When he was in college, probably.

"Then you're overdue!" Bull says, and somehow, Dorian winds up agreeing.

###

It does not go well, and the worst part is that Bull can see the disaster coming without being able to do anything about it.

The Chargers are wound up from the game, tossing insults and jokes and insulting jokes at each other at top volume while they steal food off whatever plate happens to be closest without regard for who actually ordered what. In other words, it's a pretty normal Tuesday evening for them, and Bull's mediating a dispute over French fries when Dorian arrives.

He's obviously come straight from work, still in his suit and tie and with all his masks firmly in place, every inch the cocky SOB that Bull first met. Only, tonight there's no hint of the smile that first caught Bull's attention, or the sense of humor that pulled him in to a conversation.

When he pauses at Bull's shoulder, conversation at the table trails off into nothingness, everyone staring. It's such a dramatic change that even other diners turn to see what's happening, and Bull watches Dorian pull that arrogance tighter around himself. His nod to the table is very nearly regal, and Bull hides a wince.

"Guys, this is Dorian," he says, trying to get the evening back on the right track. "Dorian, these are my guys. They like to call themselves the Chargers."

Dorian slants a look at him from the corner of one eye. "You're the Bull, they're the Chargers?" There's a trace of humor in his voice, but Bull doesn't need to look around the table to know he's the only one who hears it as amusement and not mockery.

Things go downhill from there. Unsure what to make of Dorian, the Chargers mostly choose to ignore him, except that their voices are a little too loud and their jokes a little bit forced as they try with varying degrees of success to pretend nothing's wrong. For his part, Dorian seems too aware of how uncomfortable he's making them: he says almost nothing and picks at his food without really eating. It looks like nerves to Bull, but he's pretty sure everybody else sees it as snobbery.

Dorian makes it forty-five minutes before he retreats, and they're probably the most socially-awkward forty-five minutes of Bull's life. When the retreat comes, it's a relief for everybody, and since most of the Chargers aren't particularly well socialized, their relief is obvious to anyone looking. Including Dorian.

Bull follows him out to the parking lot, calling a hasty, "Back in a sec!" over his shoulder as he goes, and it's a good thing he hurried, because Dorian is already getting into his car by the time Bull catches up.

"Okay," Bull says, catching the car door and blocking Dorian in between the car and his body. "That didn't go quite the way I pictured."

"So glad to hear it," Dorian says, looking off over the car's roof. "I'd hate to think you subjected all of us to that _knowingly_."

There are a lot of things Bull could say to that, but he suspects Dorian isn't going to listen to any of them right now. He's practically vibrating with tension, and even if he's too well-trained to frown, Bull can read his unhappiness in the corners of his eyes and the way his lips are just a little too tight.

"You want to come over to my place?" he asks instead.

"If you want me to," Dorian says, as if it doesn't matter to him.

Bull smothers a flash of annoyance. "I wouldn't've asked if I didn't."

Finally, _finally_ , Dorian looks at him. "Why? I'm clearly not very good company tonight."

"It might help if you didn't start from, 'They're going to hate me.'" Bull regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, but it's too late.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dorian asks, one eyebrow rising.

Still not a good time for this conversation, but apparently they're having it anyway. Bull tries to keep his tone level, without accusation, as he says, "Think about it for a second. You walked in wearing a suit that probably cost more than most of them make in a month, and then you hardly say six words to anybody." There's a flash of hurt, and then anger, on Dorian's face, and Bull hurries on, aware of exactly how dangerous a combination those two emotions can be. "You're nervous, I get that, I'm not saying you _do_ think you're better than them. Just...think about how it looks to somebody who doesn't know you."

Dorian's face is blank now, so carefully guarded even Bull can't read it. "I see."

"I don't think you do," Bull says. His first instinct is to keep his hands to himself, to give Dorian his space, before he remembers that _Can I touch you?_ from the other night. He hesitates, then lays his fingers carefully over top of Dorian's where they rest on the top of the car door. Dorian's hand twitches a couple times, but when it stops, it's no longer gripping the metal like the door is the only thing keeping Dorian afloat.

"I'm not saying you did anything wrong," Bull says quietly. "I'm just saying it looked weird."

"All right," Dorian says. His face is now neutral rather than blank, and that's a subtle distinction Bull wasn't even aware existed until just now. "I...probably shouldn't have come tonight. I'm sorry."

It sounds like an actual apology, rather than an attempt at appeasement, so Bull tries to keep his tone casual as he says, "You don't need to be sorry."

"I do, actually," Dorian says. "It was a long day, and I knew I wasn't in a good mood, but I..." He stops, then makes a face. "I didn't want to disappoint you."

And there's another conversation they don't need to have right now, not with Dorian as tense as he is. At least this time, Bull manages to keep his mouth shut on anything other than, "Bad day?"

"No," Dorian says, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "Just long."

It's on the tip of Bull's tongue to ask him again if he wants to come over, to try to salvage the evening with just the two of them, but he hesitates. Dorian is so easy to read in some ways, and still such a mystery in so many others. If Bull asks, will Dorian feel obliged to say yes, driven by that need to please even if he wants to say no? If Bull doesn't ask, will Dorian see it as a withdrawal, as Bull withholding touch to punish him the same way someone so clearly did in the past?

Fuck.

It's not like Bull expected a relationship with Dorian to be easy; he's seen enough people fuck this shit up to know exactly how much work is required. At the same time, he didn't expect to feel like the entire relationship rested on his ability to guess what Dorian needs from him right now. And he does have to guess, because Dorian isn't giving him any clues.

While he's still debating with himself, Dorian frees his hand and says, "I think I'm going to take myself and my shitty mood home. Talk to you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Bull says, hoping like hell it's the right answer.

He's still wondering when Dorian pulls out of the parking lot, and he stares after the car until Krem says from behind him, "Tell me that was a joke, Chief."

"A what?" Bull asks, distracted.

"A joke. That you're not really dating that asshole, that this was all a prank with Skinner or some damn thing." Bull turns to look at him, eyebrow raised, and Krem's lip curls. "Ahhh, fuck me, Chief. Really? You can do better than that."

"Hey," Bull says mildly, and Krem looks away.

"I just don't want you to get hurt," he mutters.

Bull thinks about everything he's seen of Dorian's life so far and says, "Funny how you think I'm the one in danger."

"I watched him the whole fucking time he was here," Krem says. "It'd be hard to hurt him, seeing as I don't think he gives two shits about anything or anyone except himself."

"I'm pretty sure he does."

"Does he even know how to smile?" Krem scowls down at his feet. "It was like having dinner with a Ken doll."

"He doesn't know you guys," Bull points out, "and let's be real: you're pretty scary all together like that."

Krem's scowl deepens. "Does he wear that damn poker face even when you're fucking?"

"Hey," Bull says again, still without heat. "Stepping on the line there, Krem de la crème."

For a second, he thinks Krem is going to come back with something snarky, but then he blows out a breath and tries to smile. "So I should skip the joke about jello?"

"Good plan," Bull says, mouth twitching.

"Right," Krem mutters, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Bull picks his next words carefully, trying to figure out how to explain Dorian without giving away things he's sure Dorian doesn't want everyone knowing. "Try to cut him a little slack. I know the Arrogant SOB routine is obnoxious, but he's gotten kicked in the head a few times."

"He can join the club."

Bull acknowledges this with a tilt of his hand. "I know. And I'm not asking you to be besties," Krem makes an exaggerated gesture like he's about to puke, whether at the word or at the thought of being friends with Dorian, "just...don't assume he's an asshole until he shows he is one. More of an asshole than any of the rest of you jokers, anyway."

"Poor little rich boy," Krem mutters. When Bull doesn't rise to the bait, he throws up his hands. "Fine, fine. What-fucking-ever."

It's a shitty end to a shitty evening, made all the worse by the high hopes Bull'd had for it this morning. He calls it a night himself shortly afterward, and goes home to a house that feels a lot emptier than it should.

The ability to sleep no matter what's bothering him is a skill the army taught him early in his career, so he can't say that he stays up worrying, but he doesn't exactly sleep deeply, either, and it leaves him out of sorts the next morning when his alarm goes off at four. He's not feeling any happier when he gets to work and finds that the guy he hired last week decided not to show up today, without bothering to call anyone. If Dalish hadn't been there to open, Bull can only imagine the line of pissed off regulars he'd have had, standing outside waiting impatiently. Or not waiting at all, and that would have been worse.

Short-handed as they are, Bull barely has time to breathe for a little while, but around eight, he gets a couple minutes to collapse in his office and try to remember what he'd planned to do this morning. He's got some time to himself, with the before-work crowd now at the office and the stay-at-home parents still wrangling kids off to school, and there's a stack of shit overflowing his inbox. If he'd known that running a business involved so much damn paperwork, he might have made some different choices when he left the army.

Okay, he'd have started the gym anyway, but he'd definitely have thought twice about it.

Out of habit, he checks his phone before he starts on the paperwork, and sees a text from Dorian: _Plans for tonight?_

As much as Bull usually prefers texting to talking on the phone, he's hating it right now. There's nothing in those three words to give him any clue what Dorian is thinking or feeling: no tone, no way to know how long he thought before he sent them or whether he started to send something else first.

_Fuck it,_ Bull thinks, and calls him.

Because it's that sort of day, he gets Dorian's voicemail. Or at least, he hopes it's Dorian's voicemail; the greeting is the default, a mechanical voice reciting the phone number to him, as if that's somehow helpful. He knows he called the right number--it's the number Dorian texted him from, after all--but caution and habit still have him keep the message short. "Dorian, it's Bull. Give me a call when you have a sec."

Then he turns his attention to his paperwork, and his personal training sessions, and more paperwork, and more personal training sessions. One thing he can say for running a business is that he's never bored. He leaves his phone in his office for the most part--answering it when he's supposed to be spotting someone is a terrible idea--but he checks it for a reply every time he has a chance, and every time, there's nothing. No new text, no new messages, no missed calls.

Three or four times, he picks up the phone to call Dorian again, and every time he puts it back down. He's not going to be that guy. He's _not_. If Dorian wants to talk to him, Bull's made it plain he wants to talk. If Dorian doesn't want to talk, then all the voicemails in the world won't fix anything.

None of which stops him from glaring at his phone like it's personally offended him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The joke about jello goes something like this:
> 
> Q: What's the difference between (woman you want to call frigid) and jello?  
> A: Jello moves when you eat it.
> 
> (Note that I said it was a joke. I didn't say it wasn't tacky.)


	15. Something Missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know when to start or when to stop  
> My luck's like a button, I can't stop pushing it  
> My head feels light but I'm still in the dark  
> Seems like without tenderness there's something missing
> 
> I don't know where I am but I know, I don't like it  
> I open my mouth and out pops something spiteful  
> Words are so cheap, but they can turn out expensive
> 
> Mickey Billingham, "Tenderness"

Dorian wakes up embarrassed. Christ, did he really act like a spoiled child last night? Memory informs him that he did, and he pulls the pillow over his face, as if that will let him hide from his own stupidity. Not that lying in bed pretending works for long, not when he has a meeting with a client at eight--god damn all morning people and their unholy eagerness to force the rest of the world to their schedule--and it's already almost seven.

He does take a few seconds to text Bull while his coffee brews, and he's on a tight enough schedule that it really is only a few seconds. There's no time to dither about it, so he forces himself to type and send without giving it too much thought, no matter how anxious it makes him. He'd forgotten how much he hates the start of a new relationship, that awkwardness while they figure each other out.

Not that he gets much time to think about it during the day. There's two scheduled client meetings, an unscheduled conference call to explain patiently to a third client why blowing off the Securities and Exchange Commission is a Very Bad Idea, another scheduled meeting which at least includes lunch, ninety minutes on the world's most boring webinar that he can't just tune out because he really needs to understand it, and an hour spent correcting something he could have written in ten minutes except that the client insisted "no, no, we can do it ourselves!"

Around three in the afternoon, it finally pushes through to his conscious mind that Bull never answered his text, and the low-grade anxiety that was humming in the background is suddenly very much in the foreground. He checks his phone again, just to be sure he didn't overlook something, and while there's still no text, he finally pays attention to the notification that he has a voicemail. Nobody he wants to talk to ever leaves him voicemails, but he should probably check it before he decides Bull is avoiding him.

The message does absolutely nothing to fend off the incipient panic.

"Dorian, it's Bull." His voice is clipped and forceful, and Dorian winces. "Give me a call when you have a sec."

He's still waiting for the rest when the distant female voice comes on to tell him to press seven if he wants to listen to the message again. Without thinking, he replays it and winces again, the panic no longer incipient.

Bull sounds _pissed_.

Dorian bounces the phone lightly in his hand while he stares at the mess on his desk, then turns the phone all the way off and slips it into his pocket. There are too many things he needs to deal with right now, and whatever fight he and Bull are going to have, it needs to not happen while he's at work. He's still got one more client meeting to go, after all.

That it lets him postpone an unpleasant conversation has nothing to do with anything.

By the time the last client has come and gone, it's after six, and Dorian is tempted to just let the whole thing slide for tonight. It doesn't help that Bull hasn't called or texted since that voicemail this morning. If he really wanted to talk, wouldn't he have tried again? Rather than deal with any of this, Dorian can go over to Max's, and they can watch _Daredevil_ and eat pizza. And Max can say, "I told you so."

Fuck that.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Dorian swings his office door shut against any of his fellow workaholics and calls Bull back.

It rings twice before Bull picks up with a brisk, "H'lo?"

Why do people do that, answer phones like it's still the 1980s? He knows who's calling. "It's Dorian."

"Hey." His voice hasn't gotten any friendlier, still clipped and professional.

"You asked me to call?" Dorian says, then frowns at himself for making it a question.

"Yeah. I'm off in about an hour. Want to meet me at my place?"

Dorian can't remember the last time he heard those words said in that tone, as if Bull is asking if he wants fries with that. "Not if you're not up for it," he says cautiously.

"I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't."

It's the same tone, and Dorian pulls the phone away from his ear to stare at it in confusion. Does he believe the words, or the tone in which they were said? Normally, he would listen to the latter, but he's not used to playing this game with Bull, who's always been painfully straightforward with him.

Dorian has his mouth open to decline the invitation, when the memory hits him like an epiphany and he blurts out, "You _do_ have the world's worst phone manners."

Bull laughs, and at least half of Dorian's tension dissipates. "I know," Bull says, and he sounds almost apologetic. "Blame the army. You coming over?"

"All right," Dorian says, more bemused by the second. "Should I bring anything?"

"Stuff?" Bull teases, and this time, he actually sounds like talking to Dorian is something better than a chore to be gotten through.

"Stuff," Dorian says. "I'm never going to be allowed to live that down, am I?"

"I thought it was cute."

"Cute is not exactly the adjective I was hoping you would apply to me."

"Hot as hell?" Bull suggests, his voice dropping low.

He's probably whispering more to keep their conversation private than from any attempt to be sexy, but the result is the same. Dorian shivers pleasantly even as he keeps his response to a nonchalant, "Better."

"I'll work on it," Bull says. "See you about nineteen thirty?" His voice is slipping back into distant and cool, but Dorian tries not to let it bother him.

"Seven thirty," he says. "With stuff."

That gets him another quick chuckle, and he's smiling as he disconnects.

An hour and a half gives him enough time to hit the Thai place down the street, where a judicious application of charm and a casual comment that he's hoping to take it home to Bull results in another takeout bag from a restaurant that ostensibly doesn't do takeout. Then home to collect a change of clothes for tomorrow, and out to Bull's house.

Bull arrives at seven thirty-two, and Dorian's barely stepped out of his car before Bull says, "Sorry, I know I'm late."

Dorian glances at his watch and raises an eyebrow. "Unless nineteen thirty doesn't actually equal seven thirty, I think you're all right."

"I hate being late," Bull says, shrugging one shoulder. He's a little sweaty, dressed in workout clothes like he left the gym without even taking time to change. "It's a thing."

"I have some suggestions on how you can make it up to me," Dorian says, and Bull grins.

"Maybe we should go inside first."

Dorian sighs dramatically. "If you insist."

Once they're in the house, Bull backs him up against the door without letting him put down his bag or the food. "So," Bull says, drawing out the word with his mouth tantalizingly close to Dorian's. "Suggest away."

A couple dozen ideas all rush to the front of Dorian's head, but he goes with the easiest one, leaning forward that last half inch to kiss Bull lightly. In his most seductive voice, he says, "We could...eat dinner?"

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Bull asks, one hand planted on the door by Dorian's head while the other slips the bag of food from his fingers.

Dorian kisses him again, less gently this time, licking across his upper lip to bite the scar that cuts through the left side. "Wouldn't want the food to get cold," he says, and ducks away, reclaiming the food as he goes.

He can hear Bull laughing behind him, and the last of his fears melt away. "Remind me not to try to talk to you on the phone," he says over his shoulder as he heads toward the kitchen.

"I did warn you," Bull says, trailing behind him. "But...yeah. Sorry. Krem gives me all kinds of shit about it."

"I wonder why," Dorian murmurs, trying not to let himself tense up again. The last thing he wants right now is a reminder about last night's disaster.

As he sets the food on the counter, Bull comes up behind him and puts a hand on each hip, effectively holding him in place. His skin is warm, and he smells like clean sweat and the outdoors. "I know yesterday was awkward," he says, and Dorian twitches despite himself, "but can we try it again next week? Come for the game, leave the work face at work. Be the guy you are when you're with me, or with Max."

"What? And you promise they'll like me then?" Dorian asks, with as much sarcasm as he can muster.

"No," Bull says.

Dorian would turn to stare at him if he weren't standing too close. "No?"

"I try not to promise things I can't actually make happen," Bull says. "But I can say there's a lot better chance, if you don't start from the assumption that they'll hate you." He kisses the top of Dorian's ear and adds, "I don't see why they won't like you. _I_ like you."

"I suck your dick," Dorian jokes. "I think you're required to at least pretend you like me."

"There's a lot more to it than that," Bull says, far too seriously. "Don't sell yourself short, okay?"

"I think I object to having my skills so summarily dismissed. But since you haven't had a chance to experience them yet, perhaps it's understandable."

"Dorian," Bull says, still serious. "I like you for a lot of reasons, and yeah, sex is part of that, but it's not even close to the whole part."

And what the hell is he supposed to say to that? "Just a joke," he tries weakly.

"I've got a pretty good sense of humor," Bull says, "but can we not joke about that?"

"I...." Dorian stops, because he still doesn't know what to say, then falls back on, "Sorry."

"Don't need to be sorry." Bull rests his chin on the top of Dorian's head, mussing his hair in a way that would normally provoke loud protests. Now doesn't seem like the time, however.

Instead, Dorian tries another joke. "You do know there's no good answer to, 'You don't need to be sorry' except another apology, right?"

That, at least, gets a snort. "You're smart, you'll figure something out." His hands slide from Dorian's hips to his stomach and chest, pulling him back into a hug. "Just...don't be a dick to my boyfriend, okay? I kinda like him, and I don't like it when people are assholes to him."

Now it's Dorian's turn to snort. "You have another boyfriend I don't know about?" Before Bull can answer, he adds, "And can I say that 'boyfriend' feels so terribly high school?"

"Lover?" Bull counters, and Dorian gags with exaggerated force. "Sweetheart? Partner?"

Partner is actually a little terrifying, with all its implied commitment, and Dorian hurries to fill the awkward pause that follows it. "Comrade?"

"Mmmm, I don't want to move to Russia. Companion?"

"I think that's reserved for young women accompanying little old ladies around the world. And not in this century."

"You're a lot of trouble, aren't you?" Bull says affectionately.

Dorian tries to take that in the spirit in which it's clearly intended, but he's still working at it when Bull digs his chin into the top of his head and says, "Totally worth it, though."

Which makes it hard to be upset about anything, especially with Bull warm and solid against his back, his hands moving in small circles over Dorian's chest and stomach. "Glad you think so," Dorian says.

"I know so," Bull says. He tilts his head down to kiss the top of Dorian's head. "But I also know I'm hungry. What've you got?"

He steps around Dorian to dig through the bag of takeout, and a delighted grin splits his face as he pulls out the first carton. "Som tam!"

"You ordered it last time," Dorian says with a shrug, when Bull looks at him as if he's just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

Bull kisses his cheek, still grinning. "But you remembered."

"Of course I did," Dorian says, frowning at him in confusion. Why wouldn't he? He's always had a good memory, and it's not as if it's hard to remember the names of less than half a dozen dishes from a restaurant he goes to all the time. "There's kaeng phet somewhere in there, too."

That gets him another kiss, this time on the mouth, and Dorian abandons arguing in favor of kissing him back, coming up on his toes to chase Bull's mouth when he tries to straighten. Unfortunately, Bull can straighten a lot farther than Dorian can stretch, even on his toes.

"Later," Bull promises when Dorian gives him an exaggerated, disapproving frown. "I was promised kaeng phet." Then he grins, and this time it's wicked, making Dorian more than a little wary. "Or I could lick it off you."

"You're not pouring curry on me," Dorian says, but he can't quite control a laugh. "We'll eat out of Styrofoam containers like civilized people." After a moment's thought, he adds, "I refuse to use a plastic fork, though."

"No chocolate sauce, no curry," Bull grumbles. "You really need to work on being a little more adventurous."

"Chocolate sauce and red curry?" Dorian makes a face. "No, thank you."

"Don't see the problem," Bull says, popping open the som tam to pick out a piece of papaya. "I'd be the one licking it, anyway."

"I'd be the one kissing you," Dorian says, stealing the papaya and popping it into his own mouth, enjoying the burn in his lips and tongue from the spices. "And I'm not kissing anyone who tastes like chocolate sauce and curry."

Bull makes a tsk'ing noise and shakes his head sadly as he carries the food over to the kitchen table, but all he says is, "Actually, can you find plates and shit while I grab a quick shower? Throw stuff in the microwave, all that."

"Of course," Dorian says. He widens his eyes innocently. "Or I could wash your back for you."

"Wouldn't be a quick shower then, would it?" Bull asks. "And I'd hate to have to eat cold curry."

"I can microwave it later just as easily as now. Besides, if you're taking a shower, the food will be cold anyway."

Bull looks amused. "I was in the army. I'll be back in three minutes. Five at most."

"It takes more than five minutes for the hot water to get to your bathroom."

"You can time me."

Dorian makes a point of looking at his watch, and when he looks up, Bull is already disappearing down the hallway. The water comes on a few seconds later, and Dorian goes looking for plates.

It doesn't take that long to set the table, especially since he doesn't want to pour the food out of the containers until they're actually ready to eat, and when he's done, Dorian takes the opportunity to wander Bull's living room. It wasn't exactly on his list of places to tour the last time he was here, but now he's curious. And he's allowed to be, isn't he? Whatever they're calling this relationship, it _is_ a relationship, and that means he's not required to feign disinterest in Bull's life outside the bedroom.

The bookshelves are crammed full, and the variety is surprising: Shakespeare and Steinbeck rub elbows with Sterling, and Blake shares space with Bujold. One entire shelf is devoted to health and fitness books, but there are also history books and books on chess strategy and what looks like an entire degree-program's worth of textbooks on business management. Bull is also a long-time National Geographic subscriber--and hoarder--judging by the stacks and stacks of bright yellow magazines along the bottom shelf of every bookcase.

On the bookshelf farthest from the front door, so unobtrusive Dorian almost overlooks it, is a wooden display case in the shape of a child's drawing of a house. The "roof" has a neatly folded flag inside, three white stars showing at the bottom, while the square section has a block of colorful bars pinned to the center. The colored bars Dorian has seen before, mostly in movies and usually pinned to uniforms, but he still doesn't have much of an idea what they're supposed to signify. Presumably more is better?

He does know that the patches bracketing the colored blocks are rank insignia, and he thinks the three inverted chevrons mean Bull retired as a sergeant. Beyond that, the meaning of the curved lines below the chevrons and the diamond in the middle is a mystery. Above and below the rank insignia, various medals hang in rows, and Dorian's eyes linger on the only one he can figure out for himself: the Purple Heart. He doesn't know what any of the rest mean, but there are certainly a lot of them.

Leaning closer, the reflection on the glass shifts, and he can see that several of the colored bars in the center of the display case have bronze and silver pins in them. Squinting, his nose almost pressed to the glass, he can see that the pins appear to be in the shape of leaves, which seems a remarkably peaceful symbol for the military.

After a moment's hesitation, he pulls out his phone and takes a quick picture of the display case. He might not know enough to read the contents, but a little time on Google will solve that problem.

He's barely put his phone away when Bull comes back, dressed in a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped out and a faded pair of jeans. As soon as he sees what Dorian is looking at, his posture changes, becoming almost stiff.

"That's a lot of medals," Dorian says neutrally, unsure what the problem is. Why put the case out where anyone can see it if he doesn't actually want people to look?

Bull comes to stand behind him, staring at the display case like he's never seen it before. "It's not as impressive as it looks," he says after a minute. "The army likes to give out participation awards. The whole unit gets a ribbon for being part of an op, even if you didn't do anything special."

Since that Purple Heart is definitely not a participation award, Dorian has trouble believing him, but he doesn't argue, just lets Bull steer him back to the kitchen.


	16. Where My Demons Hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna hide the truth  
> I wanna shelter you  
> But with the beast inside  
> There’s nowhere we can hide
> 
> When you feel my heat  
> Look into my eyes  
> It’s where my demons hide  
> It’s where my demons hide  
> Don’t get too close  
> It’s dark inside  
> It’s where my demons hide  
> It’s where my demons hide
> 
> Don't wanna let you down  
> But I am hell bound  
> Though this is all for you  
> Don't wanna hide the truth
> 
> Imagine Dragons, "Demon"

Once they're seated at the table and the food has been portioned out, Bull relaxes again, back to joking as if the weird tension over the display case was never there at all. Which only makes it weirder for Dorian, who feels like he's somehow missed a page in the script he's supposed to be following.

If Bull notices Dorian's discomfort, he gives no sign of it as he plows through the food, and watching him eat is a decent enough distraction. He's polite about it, starting with only a little bit of every dish, but as soon as Dorian declares himself finished with something, Bull polishes it off. Dorian almost teases him about it before it occurs to him that, "You certainly do eat a lot" is perhaps not the most tactful thing he could say.

By the time they're loading the dishwasher, Dorian no longer feels like they're working from different scripts. All his concerns about Bull's reaction to the display case have been shoved into a box, to be looked at later. For now, he focuses on the way Bull moves around him in the tiny kitchen, the way he pauses to brush his fingers down Dorian's arm, or kiss the back of his neck, or cup his ass with one warm palm.

It's a wonder Dorian doesn't break any of the dishes, but he manages to get them all in the dishwasher without incident.

He's barely finished drying his hands before Bull grabs him by the hips to lift him into the air. Dorian gives a startled, undignified squawk, arms going around Bull's neck mostly on instinct. "What-?" he starts, and then Bull is kissing him again.

With his mouth already open, it turns heated fast, and Dorian wraps his legs around Bull's waist while his arms tighten. They're moving, but Dorian doesn't really care where they're headed, so long as Bull keeps right on kissing him.

Whether Bull had intended to make it as far as the bedroom, the couch is where they end up. Not that Dorian's complaining, not with Bull's mouth moving under his and their tongues tangling together, Bull's hands kneading at his hips. Their shirts disappear soon enough, Dorian leaning in to press their chests together while he runs his tongue along the line of Bull's throat. Bull's hands slide upward, calluses scraping over delicate skin until he can flick both nipple rings with his thumbs, making Dorian groan and rock against him.

"Tell me what you want," Dorian says into the hollow between Bull's neck and collarbone.

"This right here," he answers, hands squeezing around Dorian's ribs. "However you want it."

Dorian is tempted to call him on it, to demand a real answer, but he doesn't have the energy for another not-quite-fight, either. After a second's hesitation, he compromises with himself and murmurs, "I want to suck you."

Bull's thumbnails dig into his nipples, just behind the rings, and Dorian arches into the touch, begging silently for more. "Or I could suck _you_ ," Bull says. His nails dig in harder, so hard Dorian moans. "Lay you down right here, suck you while I play with these," he flicks the rings again for emphasis, "suck you until you can't even talk anymore."

"I like that plan," Dorian says, but when Bull gathers himself to reverse their positions, hands sliding back to Dorian's hips, Dorian grabs his wrists. "Except your pronouns are backwards. _I'm_ going to suck _you_ until _you_ can't talk."

"You don't have to," Bull says, his pulse hammering against Dorian's fingers and mouth. "Let me take care of you."

"You asked what I wanted," Dorian says. He makes sure to keep his tone light as he trails kisses along Bull's shoulder. "And if you don't want me to, that's fine, but you asked what I wanted, and I want your dick in my mouth."

Bull's body jerks against his. Dorian smiles and begins to work his way down, licking and biting a crisscrossing trail from scar to scar. There are a lot of those to choose from, in all shapes and sizes, and Dorian tries to touch every one he can see as he explores Bull's body thoroughly for the first time. Incidental contact in passing doesn't count, and Dorian wants to memorize everything he can.

He learns that Bull's breath hitches when his nipples are tweaked, but that he groans when Dorian sucks on his neck. That he likes Dorian's mustache tickling his ribs, and Dorian's teeth scraping the inside of his elbow, and Dorian's fingernails across his stomach. Bull's arms are stretched across the back of the sofa, and Dorian watches to see when his hands flex, strong fingers crushing the pillows.

By the time Dorian is on his knees in front of the couch, Bull's hands are clenched into fists and he's breathing a little too fast. Without bothering to unzip Bull's jeans, Dorian presses his mouth to the fabric right over the hard ridge of Bull's dick and exhales, forcing hot, moist air through the cloth.

"Fucking hell," Bull gasps, his hips pressing up against Dorian's mouth.

Dorian does it again, exhaling until his lungs ache and he has to stop for breath. While he recovers, he eases Bull's zipper down carefully, then grins when he finds nothing but skin underneath. "You should be careful, going commando like that. You might zip something you didn't mean to zip."

"One less layer to take off," Bull says, and he manages to sound almost normal as he lifts his hips to help Dorian slide his jeans down. "What can I say? I'm an optimist."

"And look," Dorian says, wrapping his fingers around Bull's dick. "Your optimism has been rewarded."

Before Bull can answer, Dorian bends his head to lick the shaft, closing his eyes to concentrate on the warm skin under his tongue and the sounds Bull is making deep in his throat. It's been a few months since he last had a chance to do this--he deliberately ignores the last time he had his mouth around Bull's cock--and he hadn't remembered quite how much he likes making someone fall apart using just his mouth and hands.

He sits up a little, leaning forward to lick the head, except that Bull's hand is there, cupping his cheek to force his chin up. "Condoms are in the drawer," Bull says, pointing with his free hand.

Dorian almost argues with him, but the look on Bull's face is serious despite the lust making his eye dark, and he _is_ right, damn him anyway. "Do you always keep condoms in your living room?" he teases, reaching for the indicated drawer.

"Weren't we just talking about my optimism?" Bull says. He's kicking off his jeans, which is more than a little distracting, and it takes Dorian a second to figure out what he said. "I like to be a prepared optimist. We have better luck than the unprepared ones."

Condom in hand, Dorian looks up at him through his lashes, feigning coyness. "And you _are_ about to get lucky."

"Oh I know," Bull says, his voice so low it's almost a growl.

The sound goes straight to Dorian's cock, and he presses the heel of his palm against his groin, trying to ease some of the pressure. Bull's eye follows his hand, and that's unfairly hot, too, until he decides to take advantage of it, rubbing himself through his jeans while Bull's fists tighten on the couch cushions.

Dorian's heart is beating too fast, and he realizes he could probably get himself off like this, just the weight of Bull's gaze and the touch of his own hand, even muted by the heavy cotton of his jeans. Not part of the plan, he reminds himself, and tears the condom wrapper open instead.

He doesn't try to make a production out of putting it on this time, wanting to get his mouth back on Bull's dick before Bull tries to turn the tables on him again. Not that Bull seems particularly inclined in that direction, not right now, but Dorian intends to keep it that way. Between his hands and his mouth, he likes to think he can distract Bull from pretty much anything.

It certainly seems to be working, if Bull's unsteady breathing is anything to go by. Dorian runs his tongue up the length of Bull's cock, tugging at his balls as he sucks on the head, then pressing against the skin behind them as he lets his mouth slide down. Every time he goes down, he goes a little lower, but he's in no hurry, taking his time as he gradually swallows more and more of Bull's cock.

As he comes up for air, he moves his finger back between the cheeks of Bull's ass. He looks up, about to ask if Bull even likes to be fucked, but Bull's hips are already moving, sliding so his ass is hanging off the couch, and Dorian decides that's really answer enough.

He licks one finger, making eye contact with Bull as he slides it in and out of his mouth, smiling when Bull does. Then Bull's head is falling back against the couch as Dorian's lips circle the head of his dick again, finger fucking into him one slow inch at a time. His ass slips a little farther off the couch, the small of his back against the seat cushions as his hips move, thrusting up into Dorian's mouth and then down onto his finger.

His hands are still locked on the back of the sofa, and Dorian glances at them as he lifts his head for another breath. He wants Bull's hands on his head, forcing his mouth down, gripping his hair the way they're currently gripping the cushions, but the thought of saying so is too embarrassing. Less embarrassing than it was last time, though. Maybe one of these days he'll actually be able to ask for it, ask to have his mouth fucked until his lips and throat ache from it.

Not tonight, though, so he focuses on what he's doing, on twisting his finger just right, on keeping his mouth tight and his teeth out of the way. On either side of him, the muscles in Bull's thighs tense, his hips flexing, and he breathes out Dorian's name like he's begging for something.

Dorian takes a deep breath and goes all the way down, pushing his thumb behind Bull's balls so he's pinching the skin against the finger still fucking his ass. Bull makes a choking sound, then Dorian swallows around the head of his cock, and Bull's hips jerk as his dick pulses against Dorian's tongue. There's a sound that might be one of the couch cushions tearing, but he doesn't look up to see.

"Fucking hell," Bull says at last, the words a little strangled, and Dorian sits back on his heels to smile smugly up at him.

"You-" Dorian's voice breaks, his throat still wrecked, and he coughs to clear it. "You said that already."

"And it's still true." He grabs Dorian under the arms to pull him to his feet, and Dorian gives himself a mental pat on the back for the way his hands shake just a little. "Now get naked."

Dorian laughs and wriggles out of his jeans, tossing them on the floor beside his shirt as Bull ditches the condom. He's barely stepped free of his underwear when Bull grabs him again, tugging him down to sit astride his lap.

"Okay," Bull says, his voice almost back to normal, if a little low. "If there's something _else_ you want, you'd better say it now, because otherwise, I'm going to jerk you off just like this."

"I'll take that," Dorian says, not bothering to hide his shiver.

"Maybe later you'll take something else," Bull says with a grin.

Before Dorian can answer, Bull grabs his wrists and pins them together behind his back, holding them in one hand while he wraps the fingers of the other around Dorian's cock. Dorian groans, tugging on his arms just to feel the pull in his shoulders.

"Safe word?" Bull asks.

It takes Dorian a second to remember it, his thoughts already blurring. "Red light."

"Good," Bull says, and squeezes his wrists together hard. "You'll use it if I hurt you?"

"I'll use it if I need it," Dorian corrects, leaning forward to increase the weight on his arms. "And I'm going to need it soon if you don't move your _fucking hand_."

After the words are out, he realizes there are two ways to interpret them, but Bull picks the right one, his fingers sliding up and down Dorian's cock in light, teasing strokes.

"Harder," Dorian begs.

Bull kisses him, tongue thrusting between his lips, and Dorian opens for it eagerly, groaning again as Bull's fingers squeeze his dick. Everything else recedes: last night's disaster, today's misunderstandings, tomorrow's potential fuck-ups. A part of him knows he's going to have to deal with it at some point, but...later. Definitely later.

When Bull breaks the kiss, Dorian tries to follow his mouth, only to be pulled up short by the grip on his wrists. He fights that hold, feeling the friction burn his skin, and closes his eyes, straining against Bull's hand until his muscles ache with the effort.

Stubble scraping his neck makes him jump. "God, your mouth," Bull murmurs in his ear, his fist tight on Dorian's cock. "You really do have the most amazing mouth. Probably a good thing I didn't know that earlier, or I don't know that I would have been able to resist fucking it on Saturday."

Dorian shudders, back bowing as Bull's other hand tugs his gently down.

"I could do that right here," Bull says. "Put you on your back with your head over the arm of the couch, shove my dick between your lips and watch you choke on it."

The whimper that escapes him is mortifying. Or it will be, later.

Probably.

"Would you like that?" Bull asks, voice silky soft in Dorian's ear. "Would you like me to fuck you like that, take your mouth the way I take your ass?"

His hand is moving fast on Dorian's cock, his other hand still firm around Dorian's wrists, bending him farther backward. The position should feel precarious, but he knows Bull isn't going to let him fall, and for some reason, that's what arches his back and makes his hips stutter, thrusting his cock into Bull's fist as he comes with a groan, shuddering as Bull hums appreciatively into his neck and strokes him until he whines in protest, "Too much!"

"You are so fucking hot when you come," Bull whispers, and another aftershock pings through Dorian's body.

"You look pretty good yourself," Dorian says, and decides to ignore the way he stutters over a few of the words.

"Fucking hot," Bull says again. His shirt is lying beside Dorian's knee, and he wipes his hand off on it, then leans back against the couch cushions and brings Dorian's arms around to the front so he can rub gently at his wrists. The bones are aching now, and Dorian winces without meaning to. He wonders if the skin will bruise, if he's going to be wearing long-sleeve shirts for the next week or so, but he's not sure he cares.

Actually, that's not true. He _knows_ he doesn't care, even if he should.

"You okay?" Bull asks, frowning down at one of Dorian's hands, bending it back and forth at the wrist as if testing the joint. "I didn't hurt you?"

"Not in a bad way," Dorian says, and uses the hand Bull isn't frowning at to smooth the wrinkles out of his forehead. Strange to realize that he's not the only one making a leap of faith when they do this, that Bull is trusting him to say stop if he needs to.

Bull is still working his hand back and forth, frowning more fiercely than ever. One hand still on Bull's head, Dorian twists the other to catch Bull's, forcing him to stop. "It's fine. Really."

"Okay." Bull uses their joined hands to pull him in for a quick kiss, then rests their foreheads together. "Okay."

"It scares you, too?" Dorian asks tentatively. "Or...not scares, but..." He frowns unable to find the word.

"Everybody's different," Bull says. "People react differently to the exact same things, and I can know how hard I'm holding you, but that doesn't mean I know whether I'm hurting you. Not always. And you're new to this, so..."

Dorian swallows his first response, and tries to think it through before he opens his mouth. "I know I was stupid the first night," he says at last. "I knew it at the time, actually, but ego is a terrible thing, and I didn't want to back down. That's what you're thinking about, isn't it?"

"You had the right word, before," Bull says. "It scares me. If you decide to be stubborn about something, to grin and bear it rather than safeword it, I could really hurt you."

"I suppose it doesn't help to say I won't do that?"

"It helps a little," Bull says.

"Does it help more if I say what we did tonight, even if it hurt, wasn't anything I didn't want?"

"A little," Bull says again.

"I trust you," Dorian says, desperate to find the words to make Bull stop frowning.

"I know," Bull says. "And that's the thing I'm worried about breaking."

"And you can't trust me, can you? Not completely, not for this." The realization stings, and stings more when Bull nods slowly, but Dorian can't fault him. He's going to have to work for it after his stupidity the first night.

He eases forward, tucking his face into the curve of Bull's neck. "I'm trying," he says into Bull's skin. "It's not easy."

Bull kisses his temple. "It's not," he agrees.

"But it's worth it." He's not even sure himself if that's a question or a statement.

"You're worth it," Bull says.

Dorian shivers, and Bull wraps both arms around him. He doesn't feel worth it, knows he's fucking things up without meaning to. Last night he couldn't even manage a dinner, after all, and sometimes it seems like the only thing he does is take and take and take, without giving anything back.

"Talk to me," Bull says quietly.

There are so many things tangled in Dorian's head right now, he doesn't even know where to start or what he's willing to say aloud. It takes him a while to pick out something, but Bull waits patiently, hands stroking up and down Dorian's back. "You've done so much for me," he says at last. "And I feel like that's all I'm doing, taking without giving anything in return."

"Well," Bull says, voice teasing, "I got a fucking amazing blowjob out of it."

Dorian snorts. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Yeah," Bull says, "I know. But I also know you can't turn this into tit-for-tat, measuring everything out like you're baking a fucking cake. Because that'll kill a relationship just as fast as one person doing all the taking." He rubs his chin against the top of Dorian's head and adds, "Which I don't think you are. Taking all the time."

Dorian doesn't agree, but he keeps quiet, uncomfortably aware of the weak places in their relationship. Bull isn't sure he trusts Dorian to use the safeword if he needs it, and Dorian isn't sure he trusts Bull to tell him the truth about what he needs.

Fuck.

He's too tired to deal with any of this tonight, though, so he just sighs. "We should go to bed."

"Bed sounds good," Bull says.

He stands as if Dorian weighs nothing, supporting his weight with a hand under each thigh, and Dorian can't help but laugh as he wraps his arms around Bull's neck and his legs around Bull's waist. "Show-off."

"Is it working?" Bull asks, hitching him a little higher as he turns toward the bedroom.

"Working?"

"Well, people show off to get someone's attention. Usually someone they like. So is it working?"

Dorian blinks. "Are you showing off...for me?"

"Nobody else here," Bull says, as if this conversation is perfectly normal.

"But you've already got my attention," Dorian says, more confused than ever.

Bull huffs into his hair, a pleased sound that doesn’t make Dorian any less confused. "Then I guess I'm making sure I keep it."

"You don't have anything to worry about there," Dorian says, as dryly as he can while being carried--naked--down the hall by an equally naked Bull.

"Never hurts to be sure," Bull says, and he sounds like he's smiling.

Dorian is no less confused than he was when they started, but Bull's happier than he was, and that's good enough for now.

In the bedroom, Bull sets him down on his feet, and Dorian lets go of him reluctantly. He wants to hold on, to just go directly from Bull carrying him to Bull curled around him in bed, but that's not really an option.

_Just a couple minutes,_ he tells himself. _Get a grip, it doesn't take that long to brush your teeth._

Well, and hang up his suit for tomorrow, draped carefully across the bed. The bathroom isn't really big enough for two people--not if one of them is Bull--so while Bull does whatever he needs to do, Dorian carries his suit to the closet and shoves the door open.

Unlike his own closet, there's plenty of room in here; most of Bull's clothes are presumably foldable rather than hangable. A couple pairs of dress pants and the suit Bull wore to Halward's funeral hang in lonely glory in the center of the bar, and Dorian smiles a little. Seeing the suit on the hanger, rather than on Bull, is a startling reminder of exactly how big Bull is. If Dorian were to put on that suit, he'd look like a five-year-old playing dress-up in his father's clothes.

As he slides Bull's suit over to hang up his own, his eye is caught by something at the far end of the bar, hidden in the shadows where the closet extends a foot or so behind the wall. Without giving it much thought, he grabs whatever it is and pulls it out into the light.

Maybe Dorian's never seen one up close, but he knows a military dress uniform when he sees it. All the ribbons and medals that would normally decorate it are absent, presumably in the display case downstairs, and there's a little bit of dust on the shoulders of the garment bag the uniform is stored in.

Dorian frowns, just as Bull says behind him, "What are you-...oh."

"You could have worn this to the funeral," Dorian says, looking back over his shoulder with a puzzled lift of his eyebrows.

Bull shuts down. There's no other word for it: his face and body go rigid, so completely expressionless he might as well have shouted, even though his voice is quiet when he says, "I don't wear it."

It's an effort, but Dorian manages not to let himself freeze in response. "All right." His hand doesn't even shake as he slides the uniform back into its shadowed recess and hangs his own suit beside Bull's.

By the time he's brushed his teeth, Bull has relaxed again, and when Dorian slips under the blankets, an arm sneaks around his waist to tuck him up against Bull's wide chest. He locks their fingers together under the pillow and tries to forget everything else for a little while. It helps that he's so damn tired he can barely keep his eyes open, but his dreams aren't exactly restful, his anxiety permeating everything.

That anxiety is still with him in the morning as he gets ready for work, and it's still in his head when he sits down at his desk in his office. He gets out his phone to text Bull something--he doesn't even know what, he just needs something to reassure him this isn't all about to blow up--but when he turns it on, the first thing he sees is the picture he took last night, of Bull's medals in their display case. The medals Bull dismissed as participation awards.

With half an hour before his first meeting, he sends the picture to his work email address and starts googling. The search confirms his suspicion that Bull was being modest--participation awards, hah!--but he's floored by exactly how modest. When he's identified every medal, and learned more about oak-leaf clusters than he ever needed to know, he returns to the picture itself, and its array of multi-colored rectangles. Zooming in on the purple bar sitting modestly in the center of all those other colors, Dorian stares at it for a while, and at its three demure little pins.

He knows what the whole thing means now, and it makes his chest hurt: four Purple Hearts, not just the one on display in the case. Bull's missing eye is presumably what earned him one, but what about the other three? Last night, he made a game for himself of exploring Bull's body and touching his scars, and there were a lot more than three of them. Which of the scars Dorian touched in ignorance are linked to that ribbon and its pins?

Intellectually, he knows he should be more impressed by the Silver Star and the Distinguished Service Cross, but they can't hold his attention. They may be higher honors, but they're not tangible reminders of how many times Bull nearly died. Nearly died, and then _went back_. Dorian can't imagine being shot once, much less voluntarily returning to the job that led to the injury in the first place.

His desk phone rings, startling him out of his reverie, and he closes the picture quickly, almost guiltily. But even without the file open in front of him, closing it out of his head isn't nearly so easy.


	17. Shot Through The Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shot through the heart and you're to blame  
> Darlin' you give love a bad name
> 
> An angel's smile is what you sell  
> You promise me heaven then put me through hell  
> Chains of love got a hold on me  
> When passion's a prison you can't break free
> 
> Oh! You're a loaded gun, yeah  
> Oh! There's nowhere to run  
> No one can save me  
> The damage is done
> 
> Jon Bon Jovi, Richie Sambora, and Desmond Child, "You Give Love a Bad Name"

The Lavellan and Cadash cookout isn't as bad as Bull was expecting. It's actually kind of fun, and way more fun than Bull would have expected from a bunch of lawyers hanging out with their co-workers. One or two people look at him sideways, but that seems to be less about his relationship with Dorian and more about his missing eye. Even as it makes him self-conscious, he's glad to know Dorian won't have to deal with stupid bullshit later.

Though, as he looks around the crowd, Bull places a few mental bets with himself about how many times this afternoon some earnest person is going to tell him a story whose sole purpose is to assure him that some of their best friends are black. Maybe if he sticks close to Dorian, they can at least get a laugh out of it later.

Not that sticking close to Dorian is easy, not with the way he's constantly moving from group to group. Dorian doesn't deliberately leave him behind, but eventually even Bull's head is spinning from too many new names and faces, and he lets Dorian wander off without him.

He runs into Max and they talk for a little while, wary and polite at the same time, both of them working probably a little too hard not to antagonize each other. At least, Bull assumes that's why Dorian keeps glancing over at them, a strange mix of concern and amusement on his face, until they go their separate ways after ten minutes of strained conversation.

Other than Max, Dorian, and Edric, the party is a horde of people Bull's never met, and "horde" is definitely the right word. It's less of a cookout and more of a free buffet; there have to be well over a hundred people present, and since there's a constant stream of departures and new arrivals, he estimates Lavellan and Cadash is paying to feed two hundred, two hundred and fifty people. His brain cramps at the thought of what this has to cost, between food and beer and paper plates.

Rather than think about it, he watches the crowd and plows his way through the food, enjoying both. Most of the people here are having a good time, and there's a pleasant buzz in the air that Bull doesn't have to be part of to appreciate. There are the usual small sparks as people who normally hide behind their work-face are forced to talk to other people they don't actually like, but there's less of that than Bull would have expected.

He amuses himself for a while, making notes on who people like, who they don't like but respect, and who they avoid as much as possible, tracking it all as if he's back in the army and will be responsible for making sure all these people can fight together when it matters. It's an easy enough way to pass an afternoon, something he's done so often it's almost instinct.

As he watches, he begins to notice one guy more and more, though at first Bull can't say what's drawing his attention. The guy is pretty fucking hot, and a little too aware of it for Bull's taste, but that's not the reason Bull's eye follows him again and again. Other people like him, that's obvious, and he seems friendly enough, drifting from group to group and getting a welcoming smile every time. There's just something about him that puts Bull's back up, and over the space of an hour, he picks it apart, just as the guy breaks free of the crowd and heads in his direction with a warm smile.

It's calculated. Everything he says and does, every expression that crosses his face, is precisely calibrated to whoever he's talking to, targeted to draw out the reaction he wants. Which is to make people want his approval. He's the kind of guy Bull would warn friends away from, even though he normally stays out of other people's relationships unless they make the mistake of asking for his opinion. This guy is better at hiding it than most of his type, but Bull's seen it often enough by now.

Still, he's here as Dorian's guest, and the guy hasn't actually done anything wrong, so when he holds out his hand, Bull accepts it with a polite smile.

The smile he gets back is so carefully calculated Bull pictures him counting out pennies, and again he's struck by how good the guy is. He's definitely used to fooling everyone, that's clear before he even opens his mouth.

His voice is as smooth as the rest of him, just a tiny bit warmer than normal for a stranger. "Rilienus."

"Bull."

And credit where it's due, all that careful calculation is good for something, because he doesn't make any of the stupid comments people usually make in response to Bull's name. He just nods and says, "A pleasure to meet you."

Bull nods politely back, acknowledging without agreeing. Over the years, he's gotten good at giving off "go away" vibes without actually being rude, and he's rarely been so glad for that particular skill.

"So are you a client of Lavellan and Cadash?" Rilienus asks, picking up the conversational thread when Bull doesn't.

"Nope," Bull says. In a probably vain hope that it will end the conversation, he adds, "I'm here with someone."

"Oh?" Rilienus asks, and something about the way he says it makes Bull wonder if he already knew that. Which would be both weird and creepy. Not that Bull needed another reason to want out of this conversation.

"Yup," Bull says. He scans the crowd for Dorian, finally spotting him twenty or so feet away, engrossed in a conversation with Edric's wife, his back to Bull.

Rilienus says something, another attempt to draw him out that Bull answers with a polite, "uh-huh," but most of his attention is on trying to will Dorian to turn around.

Either Dorian feels him staring, or he'd been wrapping up with Malika anyway, but it's only a few seconds--no matter how long it feels--before he turns and spots Bull. His mouth starts to curve up in a smile, and then his eyes slip sideways to see who he's talking to, and even from twenty feet away, Bull can see him freeze.

The pause lasts a tiny fraction of a second, so brief a time that Bull would be surprised if anyone else, except maybe Max, would understand it for what it was, but it puts Bull instantly on high alert. Dorian's face closes off, the real smile of a second ago becoming the mask that Bull is learning to hate.

Everything about Dorian is locked down hard as he crosses the distance to join them, though his masks are good enough Rilienus doesn't appear to notice as he turns that calculated smile on Dorian. The smile he gets back is every bit as calculated.

It's been a long time since Bull wanted to punch anyone as badly as he wants to punch Rilienus, and he doesn't even know the story. Not that the details matter at the moment. He's got a lot of questions to ask later, but for now, he just turns his body so he and Dorian are both facing Rilienus, one of Bull's hands on the small of Dorian's back where no one else can see.

"Rilienus," Dorian says, in the coolly polite tone he uses on his mother. "I trust you're doing well?"

"Oh, can't complain," Rilienus says. "Is this your new friend?"

What are they, twelve? Before Dorian can answer, Bull says, "Boyfriend, yeah." He manages not to make it a challenge, but it's a close call.

"How long have you two been together?" Rilienus asks. He's either completely oblivious to the tension, or he's even more of a dick than Bull thought.

"A little while," Bull says. Without waiting for Rilienus to come up with some new conversational topic, he says to Dorian, "Hey, there's something I wanted to talk to you and Max about. Excuse us," he adds to Rilienus.

Bull is pretty sure Rilienus nods at them, but honestly, he's not waiting around to find out as he steers Dorian in the direction he last saw Max.

Fortunately, Max is still there, sprawled in a folding chair and watching the crowd much the way Bull was earlier. He straightens abruptly when he sees Dorian, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Bull is absurdly glad to see his expression darken, even if he wishes Max would learn to keep his feelings under wraps a little better.

As they get closer, Max's mouth opens, but Dorian talks over him. "I'm fine," he snaps, sounding about as not-fine as it gets, short of crying.

Max does seem to have some sense, at least, because he settles back in his chair and makes an attempt at a more pleasant expression. "Offer stands," he says cryptically, and Dorian's mouth quirks briefly.

"No, thank you," Dorian says. He glances at Bull, and there's a question in his gaze that Bull doesn't understand. It's as if he's begging, "Please don't," but please don't _what_? Please don't be mad? Please don't leave? Please don't ask?

The best answer Bull can give at the moment is the same either way, so he just smiles and sits beside Max. Dorian relaxes a little, and Bull tries to do the same.

"It's getting late," Dorian begins, but then someone calls his name from the crowd to their right, and suddenly he's got his Arrogant SOB face on again. "I'll be right back," he says, and heads off to answer whoever called his name.

While he's gone, Bull leans sideways and says to Max, "So tell me about Rilienus."

Max's upper lip curls. "He's a cheating, lying, weaselly son of a bitch who would smile to your face while he cut off your balls and fed them to you."

Bull leans back a little bit. "Don't sugar-coat it," he says. "Tell me how you really feel."

"If you have an hour or so," Max says. "And possibly also a sound-proof room. The screaming does tend to alarm people." It's his turn to lean in, closing the distance between them until he's right in Bull's face, smiling pleasantly as he says, "If I think for one half of one nanosecond that you're entertaining even the most nebulous plans about maybe possibly someday _considering_ fucking Rilienus, I will kill you, and I will hold out my arm for the fucking pentobarbital with a smile on my face."

"Jesus," Bull says, resisting the urge to lean away again. Max is so close there's nowhere to go except backwards out of his chair. "If I'm ever crazy enough to go anywhere near him, I'd rather be dead."

Max cocks his head to one side, studying Bull's face for god-knows-what. Then he glances past Bull's shoulder and straightens, just as Dorian reappears, looking a little worn around the edges. His eyes go to Bull, and that question is there again, the one Bull still doesn't understand.

They're in the middle of literally a hundred of Dorian's co-workers, and Bull knows him well enough to know that any public display of affection isn't going to be well received. That look on Dorian's face deserves some kind of answer, though, so when he's close enough, Bull takes one of his hands and kisses the inside of his wrist quickly. He doesn't linger, but he does keep hold of Dorian's hand, letting his thumb rest on the spot where he just kissed.

Dorian sighs, almost inaudibly, and leans his hip against Bull's shoulder without trying to free his hand. "You ready to go?" Bull asks.

"I think so," Dorian says, as if it doesn't matter to him one way or another. His fingers locked around Bull's make his tone into a lie.

Max is giving them a strange look, one even Bull can't interpret, but he ignores it in favor of watching Dorian. Right now, Max just isn't his primary concern.

###

They end up back at Dorian's, and they're no sooner in the door than Dorian's hands and mouth are on him. His kisses are frantic, something Bull normally doesn't mind, except that this isn't the right kind of frantic. This is more of the same question from earlier, the "please don't" that Bull still doesn't understand.

"Hey," he says, catching Dorian's face in both hands. "Talk to me."

Dorian tries to jerk his head away, but Bull tightens his grip. "Or if you don't want to talk, fine, but don't pretend you're okay when I know you're not."

"I'm fine," Dorian says. He's trying for a sexy voice, except that the crack at the end just makes Bull's chest hurt.

"You don't look fine," Bull says. He doesn't know exactly what the problem is, though he has a couple suspicions at this point. "Was that your ex? The one who didn't want more when you did."

For a second, he thinks Dorian is going to pull away, or snap at him, or do anything but actually answer his question. Then his eyes close and he says quietly, "Yes."

"Bad breakup?"

Dorian makes a weird sound that might be a sob or might be a laugh. "Yes." He turns his face into Bull's palm, and Bull is only too happy to cup the other hand around the back of his head, rubbing at the base of his skull.

"Want to tell me about it?"

"There isn't much to tell," Dorian says. "Not really. I thought we were seeing only each other while he...thought otherwise. It blew up in both our faces." His eyes are still closed, his face half hidden by Bull's hand. "His parting shot was, 'It's hardly my fault you changed the rules without telling me,' which sums everything up rather nicely."

From what Bull saw this afternoon, and what he's gathered from Dorian's reactions, there's a lot more to the story than that. Or maybe there isn't. Rilienus is clearly a manipulative asshole, but that doesn't necessarily mean he's the one who taught Dorian to treat apologies as a shield, or to flinch at just the suggestion of name calling during sex.

But if Dorian doesn't want to talk about it, Bull isn't going to push him. Which doesn't mean he's particularly interested in sex right now, not with Dorian looking like this.

He tips Dorian's chin up and kisses him lightly. "You know I think you're hot," he says, "and if you want to have sex, I'm always happy to try to make you come so hard you scream."

Dorian smiles a little, but there's no shiver, no quick inhale, no sign that the words have turned him on.

"But if what you really want," Bull continues, picking his words carefully, "is to spend some time just the two of us, I'm good with that, too. We can watch a movie, or take a nap, or whatever."

Without opening his eyes, Dorian asks, "If I tell you I want you to fuck me into the mattress, will you believe me?"

"If you look at me while you do it, sure." He strokes one thumb across Dorian's lips. "Hell, you don't even need to say it. Look me in the eye and nod, and I promise I'll haul you upstairs so fast you'll think I teleported."

There's a pause, and Bull wonders if Dorian is going to try to lie to him, and what he'll do if that happens. Telling Dorian what he feels, or what he should feel, is a terrible idea, but there's absolutely nothing about him that says, "I want you to fuck me," and if he says it, it's almost certainly going to be a lie.

Except he doesn't say anything, just eases himself forward like his bones hurt and wraps his arms around Bull's waist, pressing his face into Bull's shirt, and Bull exhales as quietly as he can. "Movie or nap?" he asks.

"Movie," Dorian mumbles into his chest. "I'm not much for naps."

He doesn't move, though, and Bull doesn't try to pull away, just combs his fingers through Dorian's hair while his other hand rests on the small of Dorian's back. Only when Dorian stirs against him does he step away, letting his fingers slide down Dorian's arm to his hand to tug him into the living room.

The couch is exactly as uncomfortable as Bull remembers, but if he lays down on it instead of sitting, it's not too bad, even if he does have to lie on his side and tuck his knees up. He's still trying to figure out how both he and Dorian can fit when Dorian surprises him by lying on top of him. One of Bull's prior fuck buddies had a cat who liked to curl up like this, Bull on his side and the cat in loaf position on his hip, but Dorian is a lot bigger than a cat.

"Is that even comfortable?" he asks as Dorian settles into place. He wouldn't have thought so, but Dorian seems to be making it work, shifting around until Bull's hip fits against his waist and his cheek is resting on the outside of Bull's upper arm.

"It is for me," Dorian says. "Are you all right?"

"I'm good," Bull says, and he is. Dorian's weight is grounding rather than smothering, especially when he drops one hand down to rest it on Bull's chest.

"You are that," Dorian says. The thread of amusement in his voice, faint as it is, does wonders for the sick feeling in Bull's stomach.

It turns out that Dorian has a thing for superhero movies: the good, the bad, and the hysterically bad. That he laughs at the blatantly fucked up parts is a relief for Bull on multiple levels, who wasn't sure he could make it through if he was required to keep a straight face. Plus, it's just nice to hear him laugh again, to feel his body turning boneless as he relaxes.

"What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?" Dorian asks as he flips through options for a third movie. His tone is so carefully casual that Bull, who'd been half dozing, comes completely awake.

"Tuesdays are my day off, unless something weird happens." And it's nice to be able to take a day off, now. When he first opened, he couldn't afford to pay any more hours than absolutely necessary, and days off were some kind of mythological creature that he wasn't quite sure actually existed.

"You could stay tonight," Dorian offers, like he's worried Bull might say no.

"Sounds good," Bull says. "Though I hope you've got a spare toothbrush."

"I think I can manage that," Dorian says

Since Dorian does have to work, they make an early night of it. When the lights are off and they're tucked into bed, Dorian's fingers trail lightly down his arm and over his hip, headed for his dick.

Bull catches his hand and brings it up to his mouth, kissing the inside of Dorian's wrist. With his mouth still against the skin, he says, "Same rule as before. Look me in the eye and tell me this is what you want."

"That's a little difficult in the dark," Dorian says acidly, but when Bull lets go of his hand, he just tucks it down between them, letting Bull wrap an arm around him.

Bull thinks about trying to explain, about trying to make sure Dorian understands that Bull does want him, but he's not sure how to do it. How to explain that it isn't sex he's rejecting, so much as the idea of sex as payment for his presence?

Now doesn't seem like the time, so he strokes Dorian's back until he falls asleep, then lies awake for a long time, trying to fit together the pieces of Dorian's relationship with Rilienus.

###

Bull stays out of Dorian's way as much as possible on Tuesday morning, trying not to interfere with his attempts to get ready for work, but when he comes out of the bathroom naked, with water still beading his shoulders, Bull can't stop himself from stepping close enough to lick one of the drops.

Looking up, he realizes they're standing in front of the full-length mirror hung on the wall, and he grins, turning them so they're facing their reflections. "Maybe tonight I'll jerk you off like this," he says. "Watch your face while I do it."

Dorian's eyes widen, then widen more when Bull cups his dick in one hand. He looks good like this, brown skin flushed and damp from the shower, and Bull's tempted to stroke him right now, to send him off to work with something a little better than a goodbye kiss.

But when he says as much, Dorian shakes his head. "I can't," he says. "I have a meeting at eight."

His tone is so odd that Bull pauses. He's definitely a little turned on, a little regretful, but also a little...defensive? As if he's bracing himself to fight with Bull about this, because he expects Bull to ignore what he wants.

Because it's clear that whatever his dick wants, Dorian himself wants to not be late for whatever meeting he's got scheduled. Given Bull's own feelings about lateness, that's something he understands perfectly, but more than that, he understands "no," even in different words.

He could address it directly, he supposes, tell Dorian that he'd never do anything he doesn't want, but after meeting Rilienus, Bull has a feeling words won't mean much. So he moves his hand from Dorian's cock to his stomach and kisses the top of his head. "Tonight?"

Dorian smiles, and it twists Bull's stomach, the relief in it. "Tonight."

Bull kisses him again, this time on the shoulder, and goes to get dressed. As he's sitting on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes, Dorian says, "You don't need to leave yet, you know."

He's standing in front of the mirror knotting his tie, and he doesn't meet Bull's eyes.

"You're heading out," Bull says carefully.

"There's a spare key in the kitchen," Dorian says. "You can have some breakfast and leave when you're ready, then give me the key back tonight."

There's a long list of things Bull needs to do today, and no real reason for him to hang out in Dorian's house, but he can't bring himself to turn down what he recognizes as a gift. "Sure," he says. And if he only stays ten minutes after Dorian leaves, so what?

Dorian smiles at his reflection in the mirror, still pretending to be engrossed in getting his tie right. "What time tonight? And where?"

"We'll probably be done with the game around six, and dinner by eight." He pauses for half a second, giving Dorian a chance to say he'll come to the game, but Dorian only nods. "So...here at eight-thirty?"

"That works for me," Dorian says, smoothing a hand down his tie. "I've got another late meeting, so I probably won't even be done at work until after seven."

"Don't forget to eat something," Bull says.

"I won't." Dorian smiles at him, and it's that blinding smile from the first night at the club, the one that hit Bull like a kick in the nuts, only a lot more pleasant.

When Dorian's gone, Bull pours himself another cup of coffee and wanders around the house. Not snooping, exactly, but looking at the photographs that are out in the public spaces and sticking his head into the rooms he hasn't seen yet. The house really is fucking huge for one person. Seriously, who needs _two_ guest bedrooms? Neither of them is heavily furnished, and Bull wonders if anyone has ever slept in either bed.

He's finished his coffee and started getting ready to go when he hears the front door open. Surprised and a little concerned, he heads back downstairs, calling, "Dorian?"

There's a distinctly female shriek, and Bull jumps the remaining three stairs, his back protesting the abuse as he turns fast into the living room.

The woman standing there is no one he knows, and no one he recognizes from any of the photos Dorian has up. She's staring at him in horror, clutching a bag of groceries like she expects him to snatch it away from her.

"Hey," he says, smiling tentatively. Whatever she's doing here, it's not breaking in. Or if she is, he desperately wants to know what she's going to do with the celery poking out of the top of the grocery bag.

She backs up a half step, raising the bag like a shield. "G-go away! D-d-don't make me c-call the p-police!"

"I was just leaving," he says. He tries to think of a tactful way to say, "What are you doing here?" but when he can't, he just says it.

To his surprise, that puts some steel in her spine, and she glares at him. "What are _you_ doing here?"

For a moment, he's speechless, not at all sure how to answer. Everything he tries sounds ridiculous, but he can't very well say nothing, so he goes with the option that sounds the least stupid. "I'm a friend of Dorian's."

She doesn't look like she believes him, but she also looks nervous again. It's hard to blame her, a woman by herself facing a strange man where she didn't expect to find anyone.

"Look," Bull says. "How about this? I'll call Dorian, and you can talk to him."

" _I'll_ c-call him," she says.

Bull fights to keep a straight face. "Works for me."

Her cell phone is bubble-gum pink, and she keeps one eye on him the whole time she's dialing. The volume is up high enough that Bull can hear it ring several times before Dorian picks up.

"Mr. P-pavus," she says, and suddenly she loses her nerve, her mouth moving but no sound coming out.

Dorian's voice is too faint to make out the words, but Bull can hear the concerned tone. When the woman still doesn't answer, Bull holds out his hand for the phone. To their mutual surprise, she gives it to him.

"Dorian," he says, then immediately softens his tone when the woman flinches. Right. He's trying _not_ to sound like he's back in uniform when he's on the phone. "So, do you have a housekeeper?"

"Shit," Dorian breathes. "I...I completely forgot, I'm so sorry."

"You forgot you had a housekeeper?" Bull asks, more amused by the second.

"I don't like people in my house," Dorian snaps back. There's an awkward pause, and Bull would give his left testicle to see Dorian's face right this second. When he continues, his tone is stiff. "I don't _usually_ like people in my house, but I also don't like cleaning it after working eighty hours a week. So Orana comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays during the day, and we both pretend the house gets cleaned and the refrigerator stocked by magic." Dorian snorts. "And my bank account debited by the same magic."

Bull finds himself speechless for the second time in five minutes. He was aware that Dorian liked having space to himself, but who deliberately forgets they have a housekeeper?

_That's not personal space, that's territorial waters._

Finally, he manages, "Okay. Well, can you tell her I didn't break in to steal your shit?"

"Let me talk to her," Dorian says on a sigh.

Orana takes the phone back when Bull offers it, though she does it carefully, like she thinks he's going to bite her. While she talks to Dorian, Bull collects the last of his stuff. By the time she's off the phone, he's standing in the doorway, one hand on the knob. "Sorry I scared you," he says, smiling as charmingly as he can.

Which is pretty charmingly, he knows, and she blushes. "I'm s-sorry I thought..."

He waves her off. "Don't worry about it. It's good to be careful."

She nods, bobbing her head almost like a curtsey, and Bull wonders for a second where Dorian found this woman. And how the hell she runs a business if she's this deferential to everyone.

Well, he can't solve everyone's problems, and she seems to be doing all right, so he just gives her a casual salute and leaves her to her work. It's not like he doesn't have enough to worry about already.


	18. Shattered Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for your promises  
> They died the day you let me go  
> Caught up in a web of lies  
> But it was just too late to know
> 
> I thought it was you  
> Who would stand by my side
> 
> And now you've given me, given me  
> Nothing but shattered dreams, shattered dreams  
> Feel like I could run away, run away  
> From this empty heart
> 
> Clark Datchler, "Shattered Dreams"  
> **************************************************  
> Soooo..."he would have said yes." Were you wondering where that fit in this AU? Well, wonder no more!

Dorian is on his mind off and on throughout the day, sometimes pleasantly, sometimes not. His relationship with Rilienus is niggling in the back of Bull's head, his subconscious picking away at it and coming to a variety of conclusions he doesn't like but has no way of proving or disproving.

He thinks about asking Dorian, but Dorian answers the door that night looking rode hard and put up wet, and Bull decides against it.

"Rough day?" he asks, kissing Dorian briefly as he steps past him.

"Just long," Dorian says. "I think I spent eleven hours in meetings."

"More fun than a barrel of monkeys?" Bull asks, pleased when it makes Dorian smile.

"I'd have rather had the monkeys, honestly."

"Who wouldn't?" Bull demands, and earns another smile.

"I've got a couple things to finish," Dorian says apologetically as he leads the way into the living room. "You mind a little more time on my horrible couch while I read?"

"Not so horrible if you're on it with me," Bull says, and the third smile is the best one of all.

They sit at opposite ends of the sofa, legs stretched out toward each other, Bull reading on his phone while Dorian works his way through a stack of papers. He makes an occasional derisive snort, marking something on the page each time, and eventually Bull looks up at him.

"Share the joke?" he asks.

"Lawyer humor," Dorian says, not looking up from the page he's currently scanning. Then he barks out a laugh, and Bull pokes him in the calf with one finger. "What?"

"If it's that funny," Bull says, "you've got to share.'

Which gets him a twenty minute explanation on the intricacies of 10b5-1 plans and insider trading rules. At the end, he still doesn't get what was funny, but Dorian's face is alight with enthusiasm, his whole body tilted toward Bull as he explains, and Bull doesn't really care about missing the joke because watching Dorian is better.

He winds down eventually, his mouth quirking in a smile. "And you really don't care, do you?"

"Mmmmm, 'don't care' is a little harsh."

"It's fine," Dorian says, resettling himself on his end of the couch. "I've...been told that I can ramble a bit."

Bull pokes him in the calf again. "Okay, I didn't understand any of it, but you can ramble at me whenever you want. I like seeing you happy."

Dorian's face goes blank, masks dropping down for a second before he blinks and smiles again. It's a weird smile, with an undercurrent Bull doesn't understand, but he does understand Dorian setting aside his papers to crawl down the sofa to him.

He's expecting the kiss, but he's not expecting Dorian to lie down between his legs, sprawled across his chest. "We'll go to bed soon," Dorian says. "Just...can we stay here for a minute?"

"Okay," Bull says, looking down at him. His eyes are closed, one hand fisted loosely in Bull's shirt, the other wedged between Bull's back and the couch cushions, and the sight takes his breath away for no reason he can name.

Not that he tries hard to name it. Instead, he rests one hand on Dorian's shoulder and pretends to go back to his reading, watching the steady rise and fall of Dorian's chest around the edge of his phone.

Dorian falls asleep within a couple minutes, but Bull doesn't wake him until long after they should have both been in bed, and if his back could handle a night spent on the sofa, he'd have let him sleep straight through until morning.

"Shit," Dorian mumbles when Bull does finally wake him. "Why'd you let me sleep so long?"

"You needed it," Bull says. "Come on, wouldn't want to sleep through bedtime."

Dorian blinks at him, obviously still only half awake, and Bull takes advantage of that to steer him up the stairs and into bed before he decides he's somehow required to put out, just because Bull's here. He does make a half-hearted attempt to grope Bull once they're both in bed, but it's not hard to derail him, and he's asleep again soon enough, spooned up against Bull's front.

Bull doesn't let himself lie awake thinking tonight, not when he has to be at work early in the morning, but that doesn't stop the thoughts from popping right back up as soon as his alarm goes off at four. Dorian mumbles a protest at the beeping and slides over to steal the warm place under the blankets that Bull's just left, back to sleep before Bull's even in the shower.

He does wake up long enough to return Bull's goodbye kiss with sleepy enthusiasm, arms around his neck to hold him in place. "Tonight," he mumbles.

"Tonight?" Bull asks.

"Tonight, we have a date with my mirror." He smothers a yawn against Bull's shoulder. "Won't fall asleep this time."

Which is pretty funny from a guy who's still not awake enough to open his eyes, but Bull doesn’t point that out. "Tonight I work until nine," he says.

"M'kay," Dorian says, already burrowing back under the blankets.

Bull grins and gives it even odds whether Dorian will even remember this conversation later. Since his hair is already a disaster, and he's too asleep to complain, Bull takes the opportunity to run his fingers through it, combing it back from his forehead. Dorian turns his face into the touch, and Bull knows it's stupidly sappy, but it makes him smile anyway.

He's still smiling when he gets to work a little before five, and Dalish raises her eyebrows at him. "Good night, Chief?" she asks.

"Good night," he agrees, even though it wasn't, not in the way she means it. "Anything I need to know about from yesterday?"

"Nope," she says, "we're good. But you might not be good by closing." She slides the appointment book down the counter to him, and he flips to today, eyebrow going up. His morning is completely booked, starting at six right up until noon, and then off-and-on for most of the afternoon.

On the one hand, he's going to be wasted by tonight, and whether Dorian remembers the conversation may not matter, because Bull's probably not going to have the energy to do anything except fall over. On the other hand, more business for the gym is never bad. He's past the first days of shaking out the couch cushions to make payroll, but he's nowhere near the point of taking it for granted that he'll be able to make the rent in three months.

His thoughts are interrupted as one name catches his eye. "Who's this?" he asks, pointing.

"Huh?" Dalish cranes her head around to see, then shrugs. "Some guy. He called yesterday, insisted he had to have an appointment with you as soon as possible. Said a friend of his recommended you." She shrugs again. "He was okay with ten o'clock, so I figured what the hell."

Ten in the morning on a Wednesday isn't exactly a popular time for personal training appointments, and there was no reason for Dalish not to make the appointment. She'd have no reason to think there was anything weird about "M. Trevelyan" wanting an appointment with Bull. To work on his running form, the note says, and Bull snorts quietly.

Yeah, right.

He's somewhere between curious and apprehensive, wondering what the hell Max wants. They didn't exactly end on a positive note Monday, but if Max thinks he can just come here and make threats, Bull's going to have to set him straight. Dorian's best friend or not, Bull isn't going to put up with that shit.

He has to wait five hours to find out, however, and he's working up a good head start on pissed by the time Max arrives, dressed in khakis and a polo shirt with a logo Bull doesn't recognize. The perpetual chip on his shoulder seems to be missing, however, and Bull relaxes a bit. Maybe they can skip the shouting match after all.

Max looks around the gym, appraising everything so carefully that Bull has to hide a grin as he waits for the verdict. To his surprise, what Max comes back with is, "Not bad. Looks a lot like my gym."

"Really?" Bull asks. "I figured you more for the mineral-water and towel-warmer type."

"Nothing wrong with mineral water," Max says with a faint smile. "But a bit of a waste when I'm working out, don't you think? I go to the gym to exercise, not to spend half my salary on little 'perks' that don't actually contribute to either my strength or my endurance."

Bull grins. "Well, there's one thing we agree on." Quite possibly the only thing, except Dorian.

"One thing," Max agrees. "I'm actually here to talk to you about the other. Dorian."

Having him echo Bull's thoughts so closely is a little weird, but Bull manages not to say so. "I wondered about that, when I saw you on my schedule for this morning. I'm guessing you don't actually want to work on your running form?"

"You would guess correctly. Do you have an office, or someplace with a door where we can have a little privacy?"

Bull jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "I've got an office, but it's not soundproof."

"I'll endeavor to keep my screaming under control, then," Max says, inclining his head graciously. "Which means I will likely have to pause occasionally to hit something, but I'll do my best."

"Back that way, second door on the left," Bull says, and raises the counter to let him through. "I'll be right there."

The room set aside for sparring is all the way across the gym, but Bull figures Max isn't going anywhere, and it's worth it to see him crack an involuntary smile when Bull tosses the punch mitt on the desk. "Just in case," Bull says, and Max actually laughs.

"A former Boy Scout, are you?" Max asks. "Be prepared, and all that."

"Do I look like I was ever clean in word and deed?"

"I'm learning that I shouldn't necessarily judge you by the way you look," Max says, completely serious again. "Which brings me to the first thing I wanted to say to you: I apologize."

"For what?" Bull asks.

"For making an assumption that I had no grounds to make. I apologize for assuming that you would be susceptible to Rilienus's particular brand of 'charm.' That was uncalled for."

Bull has to admire the upper-class sneer Max puts on the word "charm," but all he says is, "No apology needed. I'm glad Dorian's got someone to watch his back."

Max half smiles. "Please note that I apologized for assuming you would be swayed by Rilienus, which I now realize would likely never happen. In the unlikely event that it _does_ , my threat still stands."

Bull's okay with that, actually. "And so does my answer." He straightens a couple of papers on his desk, then asks cautiously, "But my original question does, too. What happened with Rilienus? If you don't mind telling me."

"Is there a reason you haven't asked Dorian about it?" Max asks.

"We talked about it a little," Bull says. "But I don't think his version matches reality. If you feel like it's private, though, I understand."

"As half the known world was present for the final 'show-down,' I'd hardly call it a secret." He rests one ankle on the opposite knee, gripping his shin with both hands. "Let's make a deal. You tell me Dorian's version, and I'll provide corrections as you go along."

"Dorian's version was pretty short," Bull warns. "Not a lot of room for corrections."

Max sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Never mind, I think I can guess what it was. Tell me, did it center around the statement, 'It's hardly my fault you changed the rules without telling me'?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"I don't suppose you have a nice big backyard? Someplace we could bury a body where no one would ever find it?"

"Nope, sorry. Plus, I don't look good in orange."

Max smiles thinly. "All for a good cause."

"If we both end up in prison, that's probably not going to make Dorian feel any better."

"It would make _me_ feel better," Max mutters. "At least, the actual commission of the crime would." He shakes himself. "But you're right, Dorian likely wouldn't see it as justifiable homicide. All the best plans, ruined by such minor details as legality."

He frowns off into space until Bull prompts, "So tell me why we're plotting a felony."

"Rilienus," Max says, drawing the name out thoughtfully. "How to explain Rilienus? Have you ever met someone who was just so persuasive that they could talk their way out of almost literally anything?"

"Yeah."

"That's Rilienus, and let's just say that he does not use his power for good. Anything that goes wrong isn't his fault, and he excels at convincing everyone around him of that fact. Sometimes even the person he wronged."

"Dorian, in this case?"

"Yes." Max chews briefly on his lower lip, clearly thinking. "They were together a little more than two years, and I'm reasonably sure that Rilienus cheated on him almost from the start." His mouth tightens. "Not because Dorian...ahhhh...couldn't keep up with him, but just because he liked getting away with something."

Bull raises an eyebrow. "And it would have been okay if Dorian hadn't been able to 'keep up'?"

Max waves this away. "Of course not, but at least I could have understood his motivation. Sex doesn't have to be about anything more than an orgasm, and I've known people who lived perfectly happily with a partner who needed something they couldn't give, where said partner got that need met elsewhere. It's only infidelity if you're giving away something your partner thinks is theirs alone."

Bull's seen those relationships, too, and while a rare few do actually work, he's seen a disproportionate number explode all over everyone involved. Still, it's not a bad definition of cheating, and he files it away mentally for later. "So Rilienus cheated on Dorian."

"Constantly," Max says. "I suspect, though I don't know, that he sometimes cheated with multiple people at once. I'd admire the man's stamina, except that I refuse to grant him even one grace."

For all Max's over-dramatic words, Bull can see the very real pain in the line of his shoulders and the way he grips his shin. "And Dorian found out?"

"We went out to celebrate Dorian's birthday last year," Max says. "One of the wait staff was Rilienus's current 'piece on the side.'" Again, there's that upper-class sneer, so distinctive Bull half expects him to say, "He's no better than he ought to be."

"Did the piece know he was on the side?"

"No, which I'm sure made it ever so much more entertaining for everyone else in the restaurant. Dinner and a show," Max mutters, and rubs the bridge of his nose again. "In any event, Rilienus's brilliant parting line was the one Dorian shared with you, shouted at the top of his lungs with all Dorian's friends sitting there stunned." Max smiles grimly. "It's ridiculous, but I remember thinking 'Thank god I didn't invite any of Dorian's co-workers.' As if that mattered one fucking bit. Hell, maybe if I had, they wouldn't have made him an equity partner."

Momentarily diverted, Bull frowns. "Wait, isn't being an equity partner a good thing?"

"For some people," Max says. "Dorian hasn't asked for my opinion, but I think he would be much better off as an of counsel attorney, rather than a partner."

"A what? And why?"

"You've seen what's involved in being a full equity partner," Max says. "Or at least, some of it. Does it look like it makes him happy?"

"He likes the work," Bull says, remembering Dorian expounding enthusiastically to him last night.

"Of counsel attorneys are given plenty of opportunities to immerse themselves in their chosen area of study. In fact, sometimes they do more of it than the partners, because the partners are required to be out 'pressing the flesh,' as it were."

Bull knows what the expression means, but it doesn't stop him from imagining a few of Dorian's co-workers engaged in an orgy. He coughs to hide his laugh. "It's about PR, then?"

"Not all of it, but a partner who isn't bringing in enough work won't be a partner for long. How do you think Dorian would feel if the other partners pushed him back out because he wasn't attracting and retaining a sufficient number of new clients?"

Bull feels his stomach turn over at the thought.

"It would devastate him," Max says quietly. "So he throws himself, body and soul, into being the best fucking equity partner the legal field has ever seen. It's the way he is: anything worth doing is worth doing perfectly."

"I know," Bull says. He hasn't known Dorian very long, but he's already seen that.

"Mind you," Max goes on, "full equity partners are well-compensated for the fact that their jobs consume everything else in their lives."

"Does Dorian need the money?" Bull asks. He doesn't know what it costs to go to law school, only that it's probably not cheap. Is Dorian buried under a mountain of student loans?

"I doubt it," Max says, "though of course I don't quiz him on the state of his personal finances. And god knows law school costs a considerable sum, even at the accelerated rate at which Dorian passed through the educational system."

"So he _could_ need the money?" As he asks, Bull thinks about Dorian's house and wonders if he's one of those people who need a keeper, at least for their bank account. The kind of person who assumed there was money in the account so long as there were checks in the checkbook, back when anybody still wrote checks. A pile of student loans and a huge house...

But Max is shaking his head. "Even a non-equity partner makes enough money to have paid off those loans by now. Dorian doesn't live extravagantly except for that house," Max rolls his eyes briefly, by which Bull gathers that Max finds the size of the house as ridiculous as Bull does, "and so I doubt the money has anything to do with his drive to make partner. And besides, an of counsel attorney would make more than enough for someone who lives as modestly as Dorian."

Only Max would describe Dorian's lifestyle as modest, but Bull doesn't point that out. "Then maybe he _does_ like being a partner."

"Dorian says he does," Max says.

"But you don't believe him."

"Do you?"

Bull hesitates. "I haven't known him very long."

"Would you be willing to commit to a less politic answer if I told you that Dorian's parents wanted him to go to law school?" Max leans forward when Bull's shoulders straighten in surprise. "Exactly."

"So he proves that he's not letting them run his life by succeeding the way they wanted him to succeed?"

Max spreads his hands. "The prosecution rests."

Bull snorts and leans back in his chair, knotting his fingers behind his head. "What does an of counsel attorney do? Besides get a really awkward title."

"Practice law," Max says, and Bull gives him a look until he elaborates. "They receive a salary rather than a share of the firm's income, and aren't expected to let their personal lives wither and die for want of attention. They're also not expected to spend so much of their time bringing in new clients."

Twice now, Bull has asked if Dorian had a bad day, and twice Dorian's answer has been, "Just long." He thinks about Dorian falling asleep on the sofa, and while it was nice to lie there listening to him breathe, he begins to understand what Max is talking about. "But why do you think he's not happy as a partner? Okay, yeah, the fact that he went the way his parents wanted him to go is weird, but that doesn't mean he's not happy where he is. Hell, I work pretty much the same hours he does, and I know I'm happy."

"Perhaps I'm wrong. It's been known to happen, every now and again." By way of example, Max gestures at Bull with a small smile. "Certainly you can watch him and draw your own conclusions. In any event, Dorian's career choices weren't what I wanted to discuss with you, and I don't need to take up any more of your time." He uncrosses his ankle from his knee and starts to stand.

"Hang on a sec," Bull says, and Max settles back in his chair. "Rilienus. Was he right? Did Dorian change the rules on him?" He's pretty sure he knows the answer, but he wants to know Max's version of the story.

Max's mouth twists. "No," he says, as clipped as ever Dorian is when talking to his mother. "It was clear to everyone else that Dorian expected monogamy, and equally clear that Rilienus went out of his way to give the appearance of complying with that expectation."

He closes his eyes, and the pain is back, so sharp Bull has to stop himself from reaching out to touch him. "After the fact. It was clear _after the fact_ that Rilienus was only giving the appearance rather than the reality. He's quite charming, and he fooled all of us right up until the end. We all thought he wanted the same things Dorian wanted. As much as it hurt Dorian, I sometimes think it was for the best that their final confrontation was so public, because it forced all of us to see what kind of man Rilienus actually was."

"Would he have gotten the friends in the 'divorce,' then?"

"At least a few," Max says, eyes opening to look at Bull measuringly. "I have a great deal of respect for you, that you saw through him immediately. While knowing him has certainly fine-tuned my ability to detect others of his ilk, I was not so astute when it might have spared Dorian some small measure of pain."

Max is a lot like Dorian, Bull notices: the more upset he gets, the more stilted and formal his language. Rather than point this out, he says, "I spent twenty years in the army. I know when somebody's trying to blow sunshine."

"We didn't, unfortunately," Max says, and sighs deeply. "And he knew exactly what to promise Dorian to get him to stay, and exactly what to say at the end to drive the knife in deep. I found out later than Dorian knew, or at least suspected, that Rilienus was unfaithful, but he didn't say anything. And do you know why Dorian didn't confront him?"

Bull doesn't actually want to know, because he can tell from Max's face that it's not going to be pretty. He asks anyway, because anything that gives him a little more insight into Dorian is a good thing. "Why?"

"I wanted to know why he didn't at least ask, and Dorian told me, 'He would have said yes.' He didn't confront Rilienus because he didn't want to set fire to the illusion Rilienus had created for him. And Rilienus knew that."

"Fucking head games," Bull mutters. He was right. He didn't want to know, and now that he does, he can't un-know it.

"Yes," Max says. "'Fucking head games' is right. I didn't even know the half of it until it was over, but Rilienus played every game you can think of, from 'If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you' to 'No one but me could ever possibly love you.' Oh, and would you like to know my personal favorite part?"

Apparently, Bull didn't learn from the last time, because he asks, "What?"

"After Rilienus, Dorian became involved with a man named Livius. They'd been dating about two months when they went to the Lavellan and Cadash party for New Year's Eve-"

"As many parties as they have, does anyone get any work done?" Bull interrupts.

"Oh, of course," Max says airily. "The parties are all after hours."

"Of course," Bull mutters.

"As I was saying, they went to the party and ran in to Rilienus, who immediately set to work seducing Livius. I believe it took him an entire hour." Max smiles tightly when Bull winces. "And now you understand my interest in your backyard."

Bull understands a lot of things now, from Dorian's expression when he saw Bull talking to Rilienus, to Max's extreme over-protectiveness. Max's interest in his backyard is--probably--a joke, but his pain isn't. "I'm re-thinking my position on that," Bull says, and surprises a laugh from Max.

"Well, if you ever decide you're willing, just call me. I'm sure between the two of us, we can find a way to avoid suspicion. And I know a good attorney if we need it."

Max doesn't get up, but there's an expectant tilt to his body, and Bull realizes he's about to be late to his next appointment. Standing, he holds out a hand with a smile, only to retract it with a frown as Max pulls out his wallet.

What is it with rich people, always making it about money?

Max may be clueless, but he's not stupid, and he pauses without actually opening the billfold. "I didn't mean to offend," he says.

"Forget it," Bull says, and manages not to roll his eye.

"I've taken a good portion of your time this morning," Max offers as an explanation, even though Bull didn't ask for one. "Time you could have given to someone who would pay, and interfering in your livelihood was never my intent. It's just business."

"This was about Dorian," Bull says quietly, "And nothing about Dorian is 'just business' to me."

Max stands very still for a moment, then smiles faintly and slips his wallet back into his pocket. "Then I believe I owe you another apology. This is getting to be an embarrassing habit."

"Forget it," Bull says, and this time, he means it.

"I don't think I will," Max says softly, and holds out his hand for Bull to shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not blame me for the awkward title "of counsel." I did not make it up, because trust me, if I had, it would actually fit into a reasonably constructed sentence without making you blink.
> 
> Also, if you're now wondering if this conversation is going to come back to bite everyone in the ass later, the answer is yes. Dorian will be so thrilled to know that Max and Bull were talking about him behind his back. Sooooo thrilled.


	19. Anything Tangible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If love is anything tangible, it  
> is his mouth  
> his mouth,  
> his holy god damned mouth.  
> He says my name and the whole sky is talking.
> 
> Caitlyn Siehl, "Tasting the Moon"

"So I can't believe I haven't asked this yet," Dorian says on Friday night, "but when is _your_ birthday?" He's lying on the sofa, pretending to watch the baseball game on TV so he has an excuse to sprawl on Bull's chest, wondering exactly how long he can draw this out before they really do have to go to bed.

"Huh?" Bull says, and it's clear he really wasn't listening, all his attention fixed on the game.

Dorian lifts his head enough to actually see the TV, squinting at the screen as he tries to figure out what's happening that's so interesting. Baseball has to be the most boring sport on the planet as far as he's concerned, and he can't see anything that's worth the focus Bull is currently applying. All the muscled asses in tight pants are certainly nice, but somehow, Dorian doesn't think that's what Bull's looking at.

In the name of harmony, he waits until the next commercial break to repeat his question. "When's your birthday? The party tomorrow made me think about it."

Bull grins without looking at him, raking his fingers through Dorian's hair until Dorian hisses at him in feigned annoyance. "It's Wednesday, actually."

Surprised, Dorian props himself up with his forearms across Bull's chest. "Seriously? As in, two days ago Wednesday, or this coming Wednesday?"

"This coming Wednesday," Bull says.

Dorian flops out on his chest again, laughing probably a bit too hard. "So fucking perfect," he crows. "So perfect. Wait until I tell Max."

Now Bull looks at him, eyebrow raised questioningly. "Didn't know my birthday was anything Max cared about."

"Normally it wouldn't be," Dorian says, and he can't control another snicker. "But seeing as his birthday is the same day...."

Bull is giving him a puzzled smile that says he's willing to go along with the joke, even if he doesn't understand why it's so funny, and Dorian explains, "His oldest brother has the same birthday, and Max used to sulk about it when we were kids, that he always had to share His Day. He was like a fourteen-year-old bride-zilla, except about birthdays instead of weddings."

"So now he can be pissed at me?" Bull asks. "Thanks." It's possible he's annoyed, except that he's smiling for real now, and Dorian leans up to kiss him.

He'd intended it to be a quick kiss, but Bull's mouth opens under his and that's too tempting to resist. Tilting his head for a better angle, Dorian licks across Bull's lips and then between them, giving a pleased hum when Bull grips his ass with the hand not holding the remote. Dorian shifts his weight so he can rub their cocks together, neither of them hard yet, but both of them getting there.

Then the game comes back on, and Dorian leans away.

"Hey," Bull protests.

"Just trying not to interfere with your game," Dorian says with a smirk.

"Fuck the game," Bull says, aiming the remote in the general direction of the TV and hitting the power button. "Baseball's boring as shit anyway."

Dorian can't hold back a surprised laugh. "Then why were you watching it in the first place?"

Bull gives him a look like he's a little slow. "Because if I turned it off, you were going to move, and I like you where you are."

Not for the first time, Dorian wonders if Bull has any idea what effect he has when he says things like that. A part of him thinks it has to be calculated, because...well, because. Nobody says things like that and means them. And yet, if anyone did, it would be Bull.

"You certainly appeared engrossed earlier," Dorian teases, rather than think too hard about the warmth spreading through his chest. It's been a long week, and tomorrow will make it longer, and he really isn't interested in navel-gazing right now.

"Engrossed, sure," Bull says, "but not in the game."

"In what, then?"

Bull shrugs, and he looks almost embarrassed. "Nothing. Just enjoying lying here with you."

Well, if he's not going to let himself get caught up in over-thinking that, then there's really only one possible answer. An answer Dorian knows they'll both enjoy a lot more than deconstructing Bull's sincerity.

He shifts his weight, driving his hips down into Bull's again, and Bull's hand tightens on his ass. "Did you want something?" Bull asks, grinning down at him.

"Oh yes," Dorian says, looking back with as serious an expression as he can muster while he's rubbing his half hard dick against Bull's. "I believe you promised me something on Tuesday. A promise on which you still haven't delivered."

It's been a long week for both of them, and neither of them has had the energy to do more than fall facedown into bed for the last two days. Not even the same bed. When Dorian had invited Bull over tonight, he'd fully expected to get fucked over the back of the couch within minutes of Bull walking in the door.

Instead, he'd gotten a hello kiss that, while warm, had certainly not been incendiary, which had somehow ended up with both of them on the couch, fully dressed, watching a baseball game. Or not-watching, as the case may be. And strange as it is to realize, Dorian didn't mind the change in plans, though he would have sworn otherwise six hours ago. Lying stretched out against Bull's chest, listening to his heartbeat and feeling him breathe, had Dorian drifting within minutes. Not into sleep; just into that strange place that precedes sleep, when his thoughts scatter but don't quite form dreams.

He's definitely awake now, though, and Bull's half-forgotten promise from Tuesday morning is front and center in his brain.

Bull's hand on his ass lifts him high enough for Bull to kiss him again, light kisses that trail across his cheek to his ear. "What did I promise?" he asks, voice low and fake-innocent.

For a second Dorian freezes, unexpectedly caught by the old shame, but he shoves it away, determined to not let it ruin tonight. "You promised me a show," he murmurs, turning his head so that his lips brush against Bull's ear as he talks. "A show involving you, jerking me off. I admit I was hoping you'd be naked at the same time, so I could feel your cock getting hard while you watched us, feel it against my ass and think about you fucking me."

Somewhere in the middle of that, Bull stopped breathing. He restarts now with a shuddering sigh, his fingers digging painfully hard into Dorian's ass. "I think I can manage most of that."

"Only most of it?" Dorian asks, biting gently at the curve of his ear.

"Yeah," Bull says regretfully. "You're going to have to skip the part about my dick getting harder, because it's not going to get any harder than it already is."

Dorian smiles, tilting his hips down against Bull's again. "Such a shame," he murmurs. "I'm sure you can make it up to me somehow."

"I'll do my best."

"I have complete confidence in you," Dorian says solemnly, slithering backward until he can put his knees down on the couch and not on Bull. He straightens slowly, pulling his t-shirt off over his head as he does, keeping his arms stretched over his head and his back arched a little longer than necessary. A very small voice in the back of his head is reciting a number of unpleasant names for what he's doing, but tonight, that voice is easier to ignore than usual.

Especially with Bull watching him like that, like Dorian is the most amazing thing he's ever seen. Though a good part of it is sexual, there's a softness to his expression that's almost terrifying, as distracting in a way as the litany of names.

 _You can shut up any time,_ he informs his brain. It works about as well as it ever does, but it's not as if Dorian doesn't have plenty of practice ignoring his own racing thoughts.

Instead of letting those thoughts take over, he tosses his shirt onto the floor and runs both hands down his chest, tugging on the rings in his nipples on the way by. Bull's gaze follows the motion, and he smiles appreciatively as Dorian slides just the tips of his fingers under the waistband of his jeans.

About to suggest they decamp to the bedroom, Dorian flashes back to a different night, and he smiles back at Bull. "Or we could do what you suggested last week."

"What did I suggest last week?" Bull asks.

Dorian opens the top button of his jeans, letting his fingers slide farther down. "We could stay right here," he murmurs. His zipper opening slowly is the only sound for a few seconds, then there's enough room for his fingers to close around his cock. That feels good enough that he can say the rest of it without flinching. "You said you wanted to watch me jerk myself off."

Bull's eye darkens, and his lips part. "I can get behind that plan."

"It was a trade, if I recall," Dorian says archly. "I get to watch you at the same time."

In answer, Bull pops the fly on his jeans, shoving them down enough to free his dick, and now it's Dorian's turn to stare. He thinks about yet another change in plans, about bending down to suck Bull while he strokes himself, and the image is enough to speed up his breath.

Before he can decide what he wants, Bull says, "Safeword?"

"What?" Dorian asks, caught off guard. There's nothing about what they're doing that should require any more caution than maybe trying not to stain the sofa cushions.

"What's the safeword?" Bull asks, voice deepening. The change in pitch isn't what has Dorian's heart racing, though; it's the way his posture and his tone have changed, giving him that commanding presence Dorian remembers from last week. It's every bit as hot now as it was then.

"Red light," Dorian says, his fingers tightening involuntarily on his dick.

"Good," Bull says, an approving purr that runs through Dorian like an electric shock. "Now. Hands at your sides."

Dorian swallows a protest and drops his hands, flexing his fingers as he waits.

"Get your jeans out of the way," Bull says, "but don't take them off."

Dorian hooks his thumbs in the waistband and shoves his jeans and underwear down, over his hips and ass until they're around his thighs.

"Stop," Bull says before he can push them farther, and when Dorian stops instantly, Bull smiles at him. "Good."

That one simple word shouldn't make him feel like Bull just wrapped a hand around his dick, and the fact that it does makes a part of him uncomfortable. It's a pretty small part, though.

"Take your right hand," Bull says, still in that low rumble, "and pinch your left nipple. Gently."

Something else that shouldn't turn him on nearly as much as it does. Dorian's never been much for being bossed around, and being displayed like this is giving the disapproving voice in his head plenty of ammunition. At the same time, his body is starting to feel light, almost buoyant, like he's floating in warm water.

He recognizes the feeling, and recognition pushes it away for a second, fear rising up to take its place. If he lets himself go, then...

Then _what_? Then he can turn off his brain? Then he can enjoy this without a constant running commentary? Then he can have sex without feeling like he has to defend himself, from himself?

Wouldn't that be terrible. The only thing he has to do is trust someone else.

Bull is watching him silently, as if he can hear the internal debate, and Dorian shakes himself all over. "I'm all right," he says. He's not quite sure he's prepared to embrace that peaceful emptiness, but he stops trying to push it away. Bull has had a hundred opportunities to hurt him and taken none of them.

"You sure?" Bull asks.

Rather than answer aloud, Dorian thinks back to Bull's last order, then does as he was told, pinching his nipple gently between thumb and forefinger.

Bull studies him a moment longer, then nods. "Harder," he says, voice gone low again, and Dorian pinches harder, feeling pleasure shoot through his body from throat to groin.

"Look at me," Bull says.

Dorian's eyes, which had been just starting to close, snap open wide.

"Good." Rather than losing its power, the word is hitting him harder every time Bull says it. "Stop, but keep your hand there, and put your other hand on your dick. Don't stroke, just hold it there. Yeah, like that."

It's not easy to resist the urge to stroke himself, especially when he knows he can end this just by saying the safeword, but if he does that, he has to be in control of himself again. There's something incredibly freeing about doing exactly what Bull says, without having to think or debate with himself or wonder if it's the right move.

Bull is watching him again, smiling a little. "Do you know how hot you look right now?" he asks. "You want to move, I can tell, but you're waiting for me, and god, it's so fucking hot."

Dorian twitches, fingers half curling involuntarily around his dick before he forces them flat again.

The pause that follows stretches on and on, and he knows Bull's testing him, waiting to see if he gives in to impatience or lust: to reach for Bull or to stroke himself, his body doesn't really seem to care which. It's the anticipation that's killing him, the seconds stretching into a full minute in which he does nothing but hold his cock against his stomach with one palm while the other hand rests against his chest. Under the tip of his index finger, the ring is warm and solid, smooth against the pebbled skin.

It might not be easy, but Dorian waits, driven by a combination of stubbornness and a desire to please that's so intense it might as well be a need. And rather than straining his control, the passing seconds seem to bolster it. The static is rising up, drowning him in the best way possible, and every moment he waits makes the next easier, the need for control slipping farther and farther away.

"You can play with your nipples," Bull says at last, "but don't move your other hand."

Uncertain, Dorian twists one ring lightly. It's hard to think through the white noise in his head, and he doesn't know what Bull wants. Hard, soft, in between?

"Harder," Bull says, as if he can hear the thoughts trying to batter their way through the calm. "I'll tell you when to stop."

So Dorian pinches harder, squeezing until it hurts and then harder still. It moves past pleasant, but he continues to squeeze even as his dick wilts and his eyes begin to burn. The pain isn't as important as Bull's face, and the approving look in his eye.

"Stop," Bull says. "Let go."

The rush of relief is intense, and Dorian finds himself gasping for breath, his hands trembling as the pain recedes to a dull ache.

"Stroke your dick," Bull says. "I want to see you get hard for me again."

Hand still trembling, Dorian makes a fist and begins to stroke himself with the kind of firm strokes he would use to get himself off.

"Slower," Bull says. "And loosen your grip. I want you hard, but you don't get to come yet."

The last little part of Dorian that keeps scrabbling for control gives up the fight, abandoning him to the white out that he's happy to embrace. He lets Bull's commands fill up all the places in his head that are normally too full of chatter, the endless rounds of debate and analysis that are forever getting between him and whatever he's trying to enjoy. There's nothing but his body now, and Bull's voice moving his hand faster or slower, making his grip harder or softer, telling him where to touch and for how long.

He doesn't know how much time passes--he's hardly aware that there are moments beyond the one he's in right now--only that his whole body aches as his fingers twist the rings in his nipples and he touches himself in every way Bull can describe, moving from the head of his cock to the shaft, down to cup his balls, then back up to tease at the slit. The whole time, Bull's eye stays on him, warm as a touch.

He's struggling to breathe, his balls starting to tighten, when Bull says, "Stop," and Dorian stops.

"Good," Bull says, and the look in his eye echoes the word. "Put both hands behind your head, and don't move until I say so."

Dorian swallows hard and laces his fingers together at the back of his neck, even though he wants so much to finish what they've started and jerk himself off. The only thing he wants more is for Bull to call him good again, in that low, pleased voice.

Bull shifts his weight, and Dorian's eyes drop to track the movement, then go wide as Bull begins to stroke himself. "Eyes up," Bull growls, and Dorian's gaze snaps back to his without conscious thought.

"You don't look anywhere but right here," Bull says, tapping one finger under his good eye. "I don't care how much you want to watch, you don't look away."

That's worse than the previous order, but Dorian squeezes the back of his neck and concentrates on Bull's face.

That gets him another approving smile. "God, you're good. So good. I know you want to touch your dick, but you'd stay like this all night if I asked, wouldn't you?" Before Dorian can find his way out of the fog to even begin thinking about an answer, Bull goes on. "You would, I know you would, and it's fucking beautiful."

It's there in his face, that he means every word, and the only thing that keeps Dorian from panicking is the white noise blanketing his thoughts. As it is, there's a second where the floating gives way, his mind and his body slamming back into sync with each other, but he fights against that, embracing the silence in his head as fiercely as he pushed it away earlier.

"There's so many things I could do right now," Bull says. His voice is steady, a shield between Dorian and his own thoughts. "I've been thinking about that, about telling you to come down here and ride me, let me watch you move while you fuck yourself on my dick."

Dorian can picture that without any problems, and he has to squeeze his hands tighter around his neck, his fingers curling into fists in his hair.

"Or maybe I'd tell you to suck me, instead. Watch your lips moving on me, watch you choke a little trying to take it all." His breath stutters from whatever he's doing to himself outside Dorian's line of sight. "Because you would take it all, wouldn't you? I could hold onto you exactly like you're holding yourself now, dig my fingers into your hair and fuck your mouth until I came down your throat."

He can almost taste the bitterness on his tongue, though it's been years since he last sucked anyone without a condom, and even then, the taste was more something to be tolerated than savored.

"And when you were done," Bull says, his voice growing rough, "I'd get you to come up here, let me suck you off nice and slow while I fucked you with my fingers."

The sound that escapes Dorian is completely involuntary, a moan or a whine or something in between.

"Definitely slow," Bull says. In contrast to the words, his hand on his cock is now moving fast enough that Dorian can hear it, obscene sounds that make it difficult to breathe. "Take my sweet time, get you right up to the edge over and over until you begged me to stop, and then I'd do it again anyway, and you'd take it, because you're just so fucking perfect."

The strain in his voice is obvious, the words starting to crack. Dorian is shaking, aware he's on that same edge, so overwhelmed that he's struggling to understand what Bull's saying. Mostly what he can process right now is the tone, and the way the words break apart into gasps as Bull's eye shuts and his back arches.

It occurs to Dorian, briefly, that Bull would never know if he looked down now, that he could watch Bull's hand working his dick, so long as it was a quick glance. He thinks about it, but it isn't really a temptation, not when it would cost him Bull's approval.

Bull opens his eye, smiling when he meets Dorian's gaze. "So beautiful," he says, his voice more of a rasp. "Now close your eyes."

Dorian obeys without thought, only to find it unexpectedly painful. He's cut off from Bull, unable to see or touch or hear him, and it makes his skin prickle unpleasantly. Maybe before he could only look where Bull told him to look, but with Bull looking back, he hadn't felt the lack, hadn't felt alone that way he does now.

"I'm here," Bull murmurs, and Dorian relaxes muscles he wasn't aware he'd tensed. "I'm right here, watching you."

Maybe in other circumstances it would be creepy, or make Dorian self-conscious, but it's comforting now.

"What else would I be looking at?" Bull says, his voice almost covering the sound of cloth rustling. "Why would I look at anything except you?"

There's an answer to that on the other side of the fog, but Dorian doesn't bother to search for it.

"I'm here," Bull says again, much closer than he was before. "Give me your hands."

Dorian's fingers are stiff, aching a little from being locked together so long, and he wants to flex them, shake out his joints until they move correctly. Those weren't Bull's instructions, though, so he just extends his hands blindly until Bull takes them.

Bull kisses the inside of each wrist, brushing stubbled cheeks against the sensitive skin, then transfers both hands to one of his own, pulling them above Dorian's head. The stretch in his shoulders feels good, but he doesn't get much time to appreciate it before Bull slides an arm around the tops of his thighs and tips him over onto his back.

The fall steals his breath for a second, and while he's recovering, Bull settles into a new position, half on and half beside him. Dorian's hands are stretched almost to the arm of the couch, his legs pinned between both of Bull's, with Bull's forearm across his wrists to hold him in place. The back of the sofa supports most of Bull's weight, but there's enough on his arm that it almost hurts.

Not that Dorian has the chance to worry about that, because Bull's other hand is stroking his cock, soft strokes as if Dorian isn't already arching into the touch.

"Hold still," Bull says, tightening his legs to hold Dorian more securely. "I'll take care of you, don't worry."

With Bull's body all around him, worrying is the last thing on his mind. Time has blurred, and thinking beyond the current moment is more trouble than it's worth.

Bull's hand continues to move slowly, fingers occasionally trailing along the crease at the top of Dorian's thigh before returning to his dick. Everything about his movements is leisurely, as if he's determined to test Dorian's ability to obey that command to hold still. And in some ways, it's almost impossible to keep his hips from thrusting up, but Bull is whispering in his ear how beautiful he is, how good, how perfect, and the risk of losing that is incentive enough, even as his skin begins to feel tight and hot.

And still Bull doesn't pick up his pace, his touch so gentle it's almost a tease. If Dorian could remember how to talk, or even remember that talking was a thing, he would be begging for more, begging for Bull's mouth or for quick, hard strokes of his hand. Instead, all he gets is the same light caress, and he wants it to go on forever just as much as he wants it to stop right now.

His thoughts have come completely unmoored from his body. There's nothing left in his head but the ache in his arms where Bull is pinning him down, the touch of Bull's hand on his dick, the weight of Bull's leg across his, as if he doesn't exist except where contact with Bull makes him real. Which is all right: he doesn't care about anything beyond the places where the two of them are pressed together.

As careful and slow as they are, Bull's strokes are dragging him closer to orgasm, the weight of it gathering in his stomach. Dorian's thighs clench tighter as he struggles to hold himself still, his hands curled so his fingernails are digging into his palms. It hurts, adding to the tension in his whole body, and he has just enough self-awareness to squeeze his fists until the pain radiates down his arms.

Bull is murmuring in his ear again, the steady rise and fall of his voice matching the rhythm of his hand so that Dorian feels him as much as hears him. The exact words are lost in the static, but that doesn't matter, because Dorian has already learned what this particular tone means. Just the sound of it is a reminder that he's safe.

In the end, it's Bull's voice as much as his hand that makes Dorian come, coaxing him all the way there despite the slow strokes on his cock that shouldn't be enough, even with Bull whispering in his ear. Slow as the build-up was, it feels like the climax lasts even longer, stretching on and on as his body jerks and shudders until it shouldn't be physically possible to continue, except that it does.

Bull's voice is the first thing he's aware of, when he's once more able to think about anything outside his body. It takes a little longer to detangle the syllables into words, and it says something about his current mental state that the words don't bother him even after he can understand them. It should trigger all the voices in the back of his head, Bull murmuring in an awed voice about how good he is, but most of his thoughts are still lost in the fog, and Bull's words just make him feel warm and sleepy.

He stirs, wanting to snuggle closer, then remembers he's not supposed to move and goes still again.

"Hang on," Bull says, shifting his weight to release Dorian's arms. He leans away, taking his heat with him, but before Dorian can feel the loss, he's back, wiping off Dorian's stomach and chest with what feels like one of their t-shirts. That done, he kisses Dorian's forehead and says, "Now you can move."

Since he then immediately lies down where he was before, Dorian sees little reason to move his body. Instead, he turns his face without opening his eyes, following Bull's throat up to his jaw and then across his cheek, not kissing so much as brushing his lips over the skin.

He's not paying much attention to where he's going, just enjoying the different textures of shaved and stubbled skin, until suddenly there are hard ridges under his mouth. Dorian kisses them without thinking, because it's Bull's skin and he doesn't really care about anything except having it against his.

Bull's whole body tenses, the withdrawal as complete as if he had leaped off the couch, and Dorian feels it everywhere, as if he were a dog that unexpectedly hit the end of its leash. He'd thought his mind had come completely unmoored from the rest of the world, but now he realizes that isn't true, that Bull is the anchor that keeps him from drowning in the white-out, and having that anchor disappear is almost physically painful.

"Sorry," he mumbles, reaching out blindly to clutch Bull's shoulder. "M'sorry, stay-"

"Shhh," Bull says, and he's back, he's there again, one hand threading through Dorian's hair to cup the back of his skull while he twines their legs together more tightly. "You've got nothing to be sorry for."

"M'sorry," Dorian mumbles again, his brain stuck as he shivers with the aftershock of having Bull shut him off so completely, even if only for a second.

"Look at me," Bull says gently, pulling Dorian's head back so that when he opens his eyes, he can't look anywhere but at Bull. "You surprised me, that's all. You didn't do anything wrong. God no." He breathes out the last part, his gaze going distant for a second, but it's not the same kind of distance as before, and when he comes back to the present, he smiles. "You did everything right, you did just what I said, and you were so good. Are. You _are_ so good."

The words soothe most of the tremors, and Dorian tries to ignore what's left, but it's hard when the inside of his head still feels fuzzy. Bull is watching him intently, and after a couple seconds, his smile quirks, turning rueful.

"You surprised me," Bull says, "that's all. Here, see?" He lets go of Dorian's head to shove the eyepatch off and slides down enough to put his face right over Dorian's. "You can touch it, it's fine."

So Dorian does. Hesitantly at first, watching Bull for a reaction, tracing his fingers around the farthest edges of the scar. The fog is beginning to clear, and objectively, he knows the scar is a wreck, something that should put him off, but it doesn't. It's not pretty, but it's not ugly either; it's just part of Bull, another scar with a story Dorian still doesn't know, that he hopes to hear someday. That he hopes Bull will share with him someday.

He raises himself up enough to kiss the center of the scar, right over the empty socket, and Bull sighs. His hand is curled around Dorian's head again, fingers rubbing gently, and Dorian loses himself in the touch for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter...I don't even know. It wasn't supposed to exist. At all. Well, except for the very first part. Cute fluffy conversation, almost immediate segue into the birthday party.
> 
> We see how well that worked.


	20. Hotel California

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last thing I remember, I was  
> Running for the door  
> I had to find the passage back  
> To the place I was before  
> "Relax, " said the night man,  
> "We are programmed to receive.  
> You can check-out any time you like,  
> But you can never leave!"
> 
> Don Felder, Don Henley, and Glenn Frey, "Hotel California"  
> *****************************  
> And look, [more art](http://dragonflies-and-katydids.tumblr.com/post/132900190092/bwb-arts-dragonflies-and-katydids-dont-think-i)! This properly belongs at the front of chapter 16, but oh well. I LOVE Bull's face, the way he's smiling at Dorian. *stares dreamily at picture for a while*

The first trial of the party is Dorian's mother, who's standing just inside the door greeting everyone as they arrive. Dorian gets a hug and a kiss on the cheek, both of which are exactly as warm as the look she gives Bull as she offers him her hand to "shake." It's the same handshake as last time, her hand presented palm down as if he's supposed to kiss the knuckles, and Bull only just manages to squash the impulse to do it.

"You're looking well," she says to Dorian, in the same tone she used to greet the previous guest, and that she'll likely use to greet the next one.

"Thank you," Dorian says.

"And Mr. Hassrad, how nice to see you again." There's no condescending sneer in the words, just the same icy politeness, and Bull almost blinks at her.

"Thank you for the invitation," Bull says, feeling a little off balance. Invitation or no, he was expecting more hostility than this, even if it was the covert kind that only showed itself in subtle barbs. She's not warm by any stretch of the imagination, but this is definitely a milder reaction than what he'd braced himself for.

"Oh yes," Dorian says, as if he's just remembered something. "And I forgot to tell you something, Mother. Bull's birthday is the same day as Max's, so we can celebrate his, too."

"How nice," Aquinea says, and while the words aren't warm, there's no undercurrent of sarcasm to them. "Is this a numerically significant birthday for you as well, Mr. Hassrad?"

It takes Bull a second to figure out what she means, and the only reason he does is because he knows this is Dorian's thirtieth. "No, ma'am," he says. "I'll be forty-two."

He's baiting her, curious to see what happens, but she doesn't so much as blink at the twelve-year gap in their ages. "How nice," she says again, and it's a pitch perfect repeat of the last time she said it, as if she has a recording of it that she plays when she needs it. "Well, do come in, and I hope to speak with you later this evening."

Then they're through and into the house, which is almost completely empty. There are tables loaded with enough food for an army, and only half a dozen people milling around.

"I told you so," Dorian says, smiling to take the sting out of the words.

"You can't be late to your own birthday party," Bull repeats stubbornly. "I don't care if everyone else is." When Dorian had mentioned casually in passing that he didn't plan to arrive until an hour after the beginning of the party, the thought alone had been enough to make Bull itch, even though he knew Dorian was probably right.

"And here we are," Dorian says. "On time, much to my mother's surprise, I'm sure."

"She was...polite," Bull says, a little cautiously, as they make their way to the closest table of food.

"She always is, when she gets what she wants," Dorian says, raising one shoulder in a minimal shrug, and Bull begins to put everything together. Aquinea invited him, but that invitation wasn't so much a concession as it was bait. Bait to trap Dorian, to get him here.

In a weird way, Bull can almost admire her. She identified what she really wanted--Dorian's presence at this party--and then bent every weapon at her disposal toward that goal. It doesn't matter that she would prefer to never see Bull again, because Bull is useful: he gives her a handle on Dorian.

Great. And whether Dorian knew this when he accepted the invitation or figured it out later, he still decided to come.

Rather than try to pick any of this apart now, Bull asks, "So what do we do while we wait for all the fashionably late people to get here?"

"Mae should be here soon," Dorian says as they reach the table and pick up plates from the stack. "I told her if I had to be on time, she did."

"And she agreed?" Bull asks, amused.

"I didn't even have to bribe her," Dorian says. Then he gives Bull a look from the corner of one eye. "I told her you'd be here, and she agreed instantly, which I must say makes me a little nervous. Don't believe half of what she tells you."

"You don't even know what that's going to be," Bull protests, picking up something in puff pastry from a stack. He has no idea what it is, but if it's in puff pastry, it can't be but so bad.

"Try those," Dorian says, pointing at something a little farther down the table. "You'll like them, they're spicy. And I don't need to know exactly what Mae will tell you to know that it will almost certainly be embarrassing."

"Might not be embarrassing for you, though," Bull says.

Dorian snorts. "It will be at some point, that's almost a guarantee." He sounds more fond than upset.

"What's a guarantee?" someone asks from behind them, and they turn to find Mae herself, smiling as if she already knows the answer to her question.

Dorian smiles, the first real smile since they got in the car to come here, and returns Mae's hug. This one doesn't last any longer than the hug he gave his mother, but in this case, the participants actually seem to enjoy it, rather than see it as a necessary social exchange.

Bull gets a hug of his own, a little to his surprise, before Mae asks again, "What's a guarantee?"

"That you'll find some way to embarrass me this evening," Dorian answers immediately.

"Oh I wouldn't!" Mae protests, but the gleam in her eye gives her away.

"Of course you will," Dorian says. "If I thought I could manage it, I wouldn't leave the two of you alone together. Try not to tell him too many outrageous stories."

"I already told him the best one," Mae says, flicking her hair back over her shoulder in an exaggeratedly casual gesture.

"Maxwell Trevelyan, Juvenile Delinquent?" Dorian asks, and Mae smiles beatifically. Dorian gives a long-suffering sigh. "Why am I not surprised? You love that story a little too much for my comfort."

"For your mother's, too," Mae says, and Bull laughs. Mae tucks her arm through his and steals one of his unidentified puff-pastry things. "Come on, we only have a few hours, and I have lots of stories to tell."

"I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" Dorian asks the ceiling.

"This is my price for actually being on time to one of your mother's parties," Mae says sweetly. "Now run along and mingle so we can talk about you behind your back."

Bull shoots a quick glance at Dorian, but he looks somewhere between amused and exasperated. He meets Bull's gaze, and amusement wins. "Don't believe _anything_ she says," he warns before wandering toward a small knot of people by the windows.

###

Aquinea's party is about as different from Lavellan and Cadash's as it's possible to be. Well, except for the crowds of people Bull doesn't know. That's familiar, and it's a good thing he generally likes people, and likes meeting new ones, or he'd probably be hiding under one of the hors d'oeuvre tables by the end of the first hour.

At least Dorian didn't steer him wrong about the dress code, so he doesn't stand out here any more than he normally does. And Mae keeps him company for a good long time, introducing him to everyone who comes by and telling him a number of stories that are mostly embarrassing to everyone except Dorian. Mostly.

Despite that, the party is far from the most fun he's had lately. There are a lot of people pointedly not-looking at him, and a number of appraising glances that clearly add up his worth to something less than adequate. They don't intimidate him, but they do annoy him, and he can't hide behind Mae all night.

By the end of the third hour, he's propping up a wall with Max, who's been almost completely silent. When Bull asks, Max smiles tightly and says, "My mother informed me she'd never speak to me again if I fucked this up, and while we don't always see eye to eye, I do love her, so I'm abiding by her Golden Rule."

Puzzled, Bull asks, "Do unto others?"

Max waves this off. "No, no. Being nice to people is irrelevant. It's all about appearances."

"So her Golden Rule would be...?"

"If you don't have anything nice to say, keep your mouth shut in public." Max smiles faintly, snagging a glass of wine from a passing tray. "Well, that may not be exactly how she puts it, but I think it sums the matter up nicely."

"Whatever happened to, 'If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit next to me?'"

Max laughs into his drink. "I like that one better, I will admit, but my mother wouldn't approve. And since I don't have anything nice to say to most of these people, I find that avoiding them is the best way to also avoid my mother's wrath."

"So why did she want you to be here at all, then?"

"She didn't," Max says, drier than the very expensive wine he's drinking. "This is all Dorian's fault, saying yes to his mother when he should have said no."

"Common problem?" Bull asks.

"Not until recently," Max mutters. "Or rather, it became one again very recently. I'd say he's out of practice at refusing her, but that would imply he had any skill at it to begin with. No one was more surprised than me when he refused to let them...push him around again."

The pause is so brief Bull isn't completely sure he heard it, but Max is studying his wine glass a little too intently. "How so? I thought they kicked him out."

Max's head comes up, his eyes going wide in surprise for a second. Then he rolls his eyes. "Mae?"

"Mae."

"She didn't tell you why?" His voice has dropped low, though not quite to a whisper. Which is fine by Bull, since there's not much that draws attention faster than two people whispering together.

Bull lowers his own voice in kind. "For being gay, she said."

Max considers this, then shrugs one shoulder. "A reasonable approximation, I suppose. They gave him an ultimatum, to conform or leave. I think all of us expected him to choose the former." Max snorts. "I'm _very_ sure that's what Aquinea and Halward expected. Though I suppose I can understand why, as he'd always been willing to cut off his arm at their say-so in the past."

"Nice."

"You have no idea," Max says. He takes a careful sip of his wine, holding it in his mouth for a second as if he's at a tasting. If the sound when he swallows is a little harsh, Bull isn't going to comment. "If I might overextend my metaphor, there's something uniquely soul-destroying about watching someone you love cut off their own toes to fit into someone else's glass shoe."

About to take a sip of his own wine, Bull almost bounces the rim of the glass off his front teeth. He'd sort of had Max figured as one of those guys who never admitted, even indirectly, to loving anyone. He almost says something about it, then decides there's no point: either Max is aware of what he said or he isn't.

So Bull just sticks with, "I know what you mean." And he does, because long before he met Dorian, there was Krem. A different kind of cluster-fuck, but still a cluster-fuck, and watching Krem beat his head against the wall of his family's expectations was brutal as an adult. Bull imagines doing that at sixteen, and finds himself a little more sympathetic to Maxwell Trevelyan, Juvenile Delinquent.

Max finishes off his wine just in time to unload his glass onto another passing tray. "But as compensation, we can celebrate our birthdays with an entire room full of people we despise. Or in your case, people you don't know but would probably despise if you did."

"Hey, I'm here for Dorian, not me," Bull says.

"That makes two of us." Max's hand moves as if to pick up another glass of wine, then changes course to tug an imaginary wrinkle out of his shirt. "In more ways than one."

Bull shoots him a puzzled look. Max grins, almost the first real smile Bull's seen on him today, and says, "Dorian told me we share a birthday."

"You're taking it a lot better than he thought you would."

"I love family," Max says in an annoyed tone at odds with his smile. "No matter how many years pass, they only remember the embarrassing moments from my adolescence."

"Pretty sure that's what family's for," Bull says.

"True enough," Max says, smile fading. His eyes follow Dorian for a second, before flicking away toward the ceiling. "I suppose I should be grateful that my family remembers _me_ , and not the perfect simulacrum I attempted to be for sixteen years."

Ouch. Not that Bull disagrees, but definitely ouch.

They don't say much after that, the silence hovering on that weird edge between comfortable and not. When he's tempted to talk just to break it, Bull checks his phone instead and sees a text from Krem: _Having fun?_

He snorts quietly and texts back: _It's fucking shark week and I forgot to pack the cage._

Beside him, Max snorts, and Bull looks over to find him craning his neck shamelessly to read over Bull's shoulder.

"You need something?" Bull asks.

Max jerks back and actually blushes a little. "I'm sorry," he says, and he at least sounds sincere. "Dorian and I do that to each other all the time, and it's taught me some truly terrible habits."

Bull has no trouble believing that: these two don't seem to have much in the way of boundaries with each other. In Dorian's case, that's all the more startling because his boundaries with everyone else come with razor wire and signs that say, "Deadly force authorized." Bull has seen military bases less carefully guarded.

Bull shifts uncomfortably, running a finger over the darkened screen of his phone. If Max earned the open-border treatment through years of friendship, then Bull's not really sure what he did to earn the same, at least not at the very beginning. He likes to think he's proved himself trustworthy over the last few weeks, but Dorian hasn't ever shut him out as thoroughly as he does the rest of the world, and it's hard to say why. As far as Bull is concerned, all he did was act like a decent human being when Dorian needed help, something he would have done for anyone.

Well, maybe not anyone, and Bull knows the exact moment he decided to step off the path: that first night, right after Aquinea's call, when he tried to touch Dorian's face and Dorian jerked away. "Please don't," he'd said, without knowing how much he was giving away. There was the obvious part, the part Bull's pretty sure Dorian intended to reveal, that he needed to pull himself together to be able to face his family. But the rest of it? That he'd had so little comfort in his life that a stranger's touch could wreck his control?

Yeah, Bull's real sure he wasn't supposed to see that.

Which was the point where Bull went off the path, just a tiny shift in direction that's taken him miles from his original goal. Offering a shower, making coffee, pressuring Dorian to eat: all together, only a half step in a new direction, things Bull probably would have offered to anyone in that situation. Driving Dorian to the hospital: a larger step, but still just one step. Walking inside with him, holding his hand as they rode up in the elevator, letting his family think they were together: one step, two steps, three steps. By the time Dorian walked out his door the next morning, Bull was already in way too deep to just go back to where he was.

So he knows exactly how _he_ ended up here. He's less sure why Dorian let him, why the emotional razor wire somehow didn't apply to Bull. Dorian could have said no at any point that first night, and Bull would have backed away, no hard feelings. Bull suspects that the reason Dorian didn't tell him no goes back to that touch, and Dorian's rejection that wasn't really a rejection. A promise of comfort Bull didn't even realize he was making, and that Dorian wanted so badly it didn't matter if it came from a stranger.

Which is kind of humbling, to realize that his relationship with Dorian started not because Bull did anything special, but because so many people had kicked Dorian in the head that basic human decency was like a gift from god.

Across the room, Dorian laughs at something someone said to him. As fake laughs go, it's pretty good, but Bull knows what it sounds like when Dorian really is amused, and this isn't it. Max frowns down at his own phone, an expression he obviously wants to aim at Dorian instead.

"So what's the rule?" Bull asks, sliding his phone back into his pocket. "How long are we required to stay?"

"You're asking the wrong person," Max says without looking up. "You'll have to negotiate that one with Dorian. Personally, I have another four minutes and twenty-seven seconds before I'm free."

Bull laughs in surprise, then laughs again when Max turns his phone so Bull can see the screen, and the countdown on it.

"Stick a fork in you, you're done?" he asks, and Max's mouth quirks.

"Something like that."

"Share the joke?" Dorian asks at Bull's elbow. He's still wearing his masks, but the smile he gives Bull is marginally warmer than the one he's been wearing all night.

Bull tries to imagine growing up in the Pavus household, buried under the weight of other people's expectations, all of a normal kid's desire to please turned into a weapon against him. No wonder Dorian shuts away his emotions like they're something to be ashamed of. It's not a dysfunction, it's a fucking survival mechanism in this house.

The only things Bull can think to say are things he wants to shout at Dorian's parents, and since one of them is dead and the other wouldn't care, he closes his teeth on all of it and just loops one arm around Dorian's shoulders.

Dorian stiffens, as Bull knew he would, but then he relaxes into it just a little, and that is a surprise. Bull expected to be rebuffed; all he wanted was for Dorian to know that someone here did actually give a shit about him. It soothes some of the sick anger in his chest when Dorian wraps one arm around his waist and leans into him.

"Ready to escape Hotel California?" Dorian asks, and Max snorts out a laugh.

It takes Bull a second to catch the reference, then he raises his eyebrows. "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave?"

"Blame Max," Dorian says, and for a second, his smile is completely real, if a little sharp.

" _Credit_ Max," Max says. "Because you know I'm right." He waves one hand around the room. "As evidence, I present the fact that we're all here, rather than doing something significantly more fun, such as having our fingernails ripped out."

"And on that note," Dorian murmurs. He steps away from Bull, catching his hand on the way by and using it to tug him toward the door. "Coming with?" he asks Max over one shoulder.

"Oh, I don't know," Max drawls, "I'm having so much fun, I can hardly stand to tear myself away."

"We'll leave you to that, then," Dorian says. Bull can only see his profile, but there's a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

The smile vanishes before they reach Aquinea, buried behind the mask once again, and Bull has to work not to scowl through good-byes that are no warmer than their hellos. Though it is a little easier when he knows the car is only minutes away. He can put a good face on it for a few more icily polite words and another limp handshake.

When they do finally make it to the car, they give almost identical sighs of relief as the doors close. Bull smothers his grin, in case Dorian needs him to be serious, but Dorian is already laughing.

"You okay?" Bull asks, though the laughter is a good sign.

"I've been better," Dorian says, reaching back for his seatbelt. "But I've been worse, too."

He looks pretty good, actually, aside from a little tired. "That wasn't as bad as I was expecting," Bull offers.

"See, you're already learning how to deal with my mother," Dorian says cheerfully. The words only sound a little forced. "Keep your expectations low, and you won't be disappointed."

Bull puts the car in gear and eases forward, using the need to concentrate on un-parallel-parking to give himself space to think. He's still working on what to say when Dorian sighs again and puts a tentative hand on his leg. Not because he's trying to start something, Bull realizes after a second, but just...touching for the sake of touching. It makes him want to break things, how cautious Dorian is about it.

Rather than risk whatever might come out of his mouth if he opens it, Bull just curls his fingers around Dorian's and focuses on driving one-handed. Neither of them says anything on the drive back to Dorian's, but Dorian also doesn't try to move his hand.

Only once they're in the house does Dorian relax, the tension easing from his face and shoulders, though he still looks tired. If anything, he looks more tired, and Bull realizes exactly how much strain he was hiding behind the mask.

There's a moment as they're changing--Dorian shirtless and Bull in only his underwear--when Dorian strokes a finger over his shoulder, and Bull worries they're going to have a repeat of the night after the Memorial Day party, Dorian trying to "pay" him in sex. But all Dorian says is, "Do you want to order a pizza?"

Bull's not really hungry, not after spending the better part of three hours grazing on various flavors of puff-pastry things, but he just says, "Sure."

They watch a movie while they eat, something with lots of explosions that Bull doesn't pay much attention to, because after he's eaten a couple slices of pizza, Dorian stretches out on top of him like a cat, and Bull might learn to love this sofa after all. Dorian is warm and relaxed against him, one hand stroking idle circles across Bull's chest.

Later, after they've watched not only the movie but also every possible extra on the disc, Bull carries the dishes into the kitchen and washes them while Dorian puts away the leftovers. He could use the dishwasher just as easily, but there's something soothingly domestic about washing dishes while Dorian moves around him.

He's not thinking about much at all when Dorian touches him lightly between the shoulders and says, "Thank you for coming with me. I know you'd rather have been at work." He snorts, his finger tracing the line of Bull's shoulder blade. "I know _I'd_ rather have been at work."

Bull pauses with one plate under the water, trying to think what to say. Eventually, he settles on, "Your mother is definitely something else."

The silence from behind him is worrying, but when he glances back, Dorian looks more thoughtful than anything. "My father was just as bad," he says eventually, the words surprisingly neutral. "It was interesting."

"God," Bull mutters. "I don't know how you made it sixteen years."

Dorian's head jerks up. "How did you know it was only sixteen?" Before Bull can answer, he rolls his eyes. "Mae. Right. Did she really tell you that story the first night, at the hospital?"

"She did," Bull admits, turning back to the sink and the plate in his hands. He wants to bring up Rilienus and the things Max told him, but he's not sure how to do it.

"She really does love that story," Dorian says, and Bull can hear the laugh in his voice.

It's reassuring, and Bull's just starting to relax when Dorian says, "They sent me to a conversion camp when I was fourteen, you know."

Bull almost drops the plate, and the only reason he doesn't just let it fall is because he doesn’t need a sink full of broken ceramic right now. Dorian's hand on his back is firm, pinning him in place, and while Bull could turn anyway, he forces himself to hold still.

"So it wasn't actually sixteen years," Dorian says, and Bull scrambles to figure out how that fits in with the bomb Dorian just dropped on him.

"Oh?" he asks, not sure what else to say.

"What you saw? I didn't grow up with that, not...not at first. Not sixteen years of that. It was really only two." He's shifted, standing where Bull can't see him without turning completely around, and his hand on Bull's shoulder is still pressing forward.

"Everything was fine until I was fourteen," Dorian says, his voice getting quieter. "More than fine. I had...I had the kind of childhood that would make anyone jealous."

Bull twists the dishcloth between his fists, down in the sink where Dorian can't see it, and breathes evenly.

"They were so proud of me," Dorian goes on, barely above a whisper, and that's it, Bull starts to turn, but Dorian says, "Don't."

He's begging, and Bull closes his eye. "Don't what?"

"I...I want to tell you this," he says, and Bull almost tears the dishcloth in half at the strain in his voice, "but I can't if you're looking at me."

The way Bull's chest feels, maybe he did break that plate anyway, because there seem to be a hundred jagged shards crammed into the space where his lungs used to be. "Okay," he says, because if he tries to say more, it won't be pretty, and it won't be what Dorian needs. What Dorian asked for, when Dorian struggles to ask for anything.

"I was their golden child," Dorian says. His hand on Bull's back, the only place they're touching, is steady. "I think I saw more of my father in a week than most of my friends saw of theirs all year. Never for a second did I have reason to doubt that I was loved, that I made them proud."

The dishcloth is never going to recover from its abuse, but since it's keeping Bull from getting in the car and committing assault, it's an acceptable sacrifice.

"Eventually, my mother caught me kissing another boy. I remember she was very calm about it, the way she always was when I broke some rule or another. She explained that it was wrong, and that I shouldn't do that again, and that was that."

Bull's eye opens in surprise, because that wasn't exactly what he was expecting, but he doesn't say anything as Dorian takes two deep, deep breaths, letting each one out slowly.

"I tried," he says, and his voice is still weirdly even. "I tried so hard. How was it different from anything else they'd expected of me? I just needed to...to apply myself."

He sighs, breath touching the back of Bull's arm. "It worked about as well as you might expect. The second time my mother caught me kissing another boy...."

This time, he's silent for so long that Bull is thinking seriously about turning around anyway, but just about the point where Bull gathers himself to move, Dorian goes on. "It seemed so logical at the time, when she suggested the conversion camp. I'd been to a...I suppose you'd call it a cram school, the previous summer. This would be just like that, right? Only, I would learn to be straight, instead of how to take the SAT."

Bull can hear him retreating behind the formal, stilted language, and somehow, that just makes it worse.

"It was...interesting. I was given a lot of time 'to think,' which mostly consisted of being locked in a room by myself for twenty-three hours a day. And in between, there was of course the requisite aversion therapy, which at least had the happy side effect of making me glad to be alone the rest of the time."

His fingers dig into Bull's back, kneading at the muscles, and Bull deliberately relaxes them. "I'm told there are worse places they could have sent me," Dorian says, still way too calm. "At least the one they chose really did believe in their mission. There were no midnight visits from the staff for 'one-on-one counseling,' or anything like that. Almost no physical contact at all, in fact, not even casually. We were none of us to be trusted, you see; we had to learn to control our perversions before we could be allowed to touch healthy people."

He should keep his mouth shut, Bull knows he should, but he can't help himself. "So the best you can say for them is that they didn't rape kids?"

Dorian snorts out a laugh. "Basically, yes."

That laugh seems to break some of the tension, because he steps closer, pressing his forehead to Bull's spine, his fingers hooking themselves through the belt loops on Bull's jeans.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I probably shouldn't have told you any of that. It was a long time ago, and it wasn't as if they forced me into anything. I wanted to go. I wanted to be their golden child again."

Bull sets the dishcloth down in the sink, then dries his hands on a towel, every movement slow and careful.

"But it didn't really work like that," Dorian says, his voice muffled now against Bull's shirt. "I managed a passable impression of what I was supposed to be until I was sixteen, and then it all fell apart. There was a boy." He sighs. "Because of course there was. And they wanted me to go back to the conversion camp, and I...couldn't. Wouldn't. So I walked out."

"It should never have been an issue," Bull says, pitching his voice down to keep it from shaking. "You didn't choose that."

"I did," Dorian says. "Both times. I chose to go the first time, and I chose not to go the second."

"You were fourteen," Bull says, not sure if he should push but knowing he can't let that stand. "You were a fucking hostage."

Dorian flinches, and Bull immediately regrets the wording, if not the sentiment. "I wanted them to be proud of me," he whispers.

"And they held that over you," Bull says, trying to gentle his tone. "No different than putting a gun to your head."

"I still had a choice," Dorian says. He sounds like he's smiling, and the broken glass in Bull's chest shifts, sharp edges digging in harder. "I could have let them shoot me, after all."

"That's a shitty choice," Bull says. "And not the kind of thing you're supposed to do to your kid. 'Be what I want or I won't love you.'"

"I thought it was a fair trade, for a while. I thought anything was worth it, if they would be proud of me for it." He takes another deep breath, the exhale warm through the cotton of Bull's t-shirt. "I still don't know which came first, whether they stopped being proud of me, or it just ceased to be enough. For any of us."

Bull can't remember the last time he was this angry, adrenaline turning the world brighter and sharper in preparation for a fight that isn't coming. He's aware of every sound Dorian makes, every shift in his body, his subconscious trying to read a battlefield that doesn't exist, not physically. He wants someone to bleed for the resignation in Dorian's voice, for this calm recitation of facts that tries to pretend what happened wasn't torture by any sane person's definition.

It's one of the hardest things he's ever done, but he clenches his jaw against any more words and reaches down to touch Dorian's fingers where they're still tucked through his belt loop. From there, he follows the bones in the back of Dorian's hand until he can wrap his own fingers around Dorian's wrist. The pulse under his fingertips is so fast Bull can't count the beats.

Dorian sighs and frees himself, stepping away so he's no longer warm against Bull's back. "I'm tired," he says quietly. "Let's go to bed."

Before Bull can answer, he's gone, bare feet almost silent on the tile. The sounds of him turning off lights and putting things away out in the living room are clear, but Bull just braces his hands on the counter and breathes, long after Dorian has gone upstairs.

When he's as confident as he can be that he knows what he needs to say, he puts the dishes in the dishwasher, turns off the light in the kitchen, and follows.

Dorian is already in bed, lying on his side with his back to the door, but Bull doesn't need to see his face to know he's on edge. "I'll be ready in a sec," Bull says, watching the muscles in Dorian's shoulder tense and relax, tense and relax.

"Sure," Dorian says, and there's no reading the tone in that one word.

By the time Bull gets into bed, he's mostly calm again, and his hands don't shake as he tugs Dorian against him to spoon their bodies together. "Hey, big guy," he says into Dorian's hair, and Dorian laughs the way Bull had hoped he would.

"I'm sorry," Dorian says. "I don't usually tell people about any of that. Max and Mae know, and...fuck, I don't know why I even brought it up." He's trembling, hand clenched into a fist inside Bull's. "It was just strange, being in my parents' house again, and the memories kept going through my head all day."

Bull thinks back to Dorian as he was at the party, working the room like he had nothing more serious on his mind than whether they would run out of the right kind of wine. Then he tries to imagine doing that while suffering flashbacks of having been tortured as a kid, because whatever Dorian wants to call it, Bull's going to call solitary confinement what it is.

He kisses the top of Dorian's head. "You're amazing, you know that?"

Dorian laughs weakly. "I'm glad you think so. But really, I am sorry. I shouldn't have said anything, it's all old news anyway."

"You can tell me whatever you want," Bull says. "Or not tell me. And I won't mention it again, but I need to ask you for a favor."

"All right," Dorian says neutrally.

"I know it's hard," Bull says, "but can you try not to apologize for this?"

Dorian is silent, his body shaking--maybe crying, maybe just shivering--and Bull leans a little more weight against him.

"I'm not going to jump on you if you do," Bull says, "but...try? Please. It would...it would mean a lot to me."

Dorian rolls forward onto his stomach, pulling Bull with him. When Bull tries to shift away, worried about smothering him, Dorian says, "I'm comfortable if you are." It's the same calm tone, but his fingers dig hard into Bull's arm.

"Can you breathe?"

"Well enough." Dorian inhales deeply by way of demonstration. "I like knowing you're here."

So Bull settles back where he was, half on top of Dorian, and tries to relax. Dorian never answered his question, but now isn't the time to push, and sleep will do them both a lot of good.

From the darkness, half muffled by the mattress, Dorian says quietly, "I'll try."

Bull combs gentle fingers through his hair and limits himself to, "Thank you."


	21. Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna leave the past behind  
> I've had enough, I'm breaking through  
> No pressing stop, erase, rewind  
> That chain of thought that followed me
> 
> Marina Diamandis, "Forget"  
> *********************************************  
> There is a joke in here that I really should have left out, but I couldn't. I'm sorry, but not sorry enough to cut it. You'll know it when you see it.

For half a second after he wakes, the only thing Dorian thinks about is how good it feels to have Bull's weight resting on top of him. He's heavy and warm, and it's almost like his body is transferring those traits into Dorian, so that he doesn't want to do anything except lie here for the rest of the day.

Then memory returns, and he tenses, skin going cold, then unpleasantly hot. He would hide his head under the pillow, except he's not entirely sure where it is right now. Hiding under the blankets is also right out, as they're currently pinned between his body and Bull's, and he really doesn't want to wake Bull up right now.

It's starting to get light out, which means Bull's alarm should be going off any second. Maybe Dorian can pretend to be asleep until he's gone off to work?

Or maybe not, because Bull stirs and murmurs in his ear, "G'morning."

"Morning," Dorian says. If he's lucky, the stiffness in his voice will be masked by the roughness of sleep.

"You got work today?" Bull asks, as if everything's perfectly normal.

"I'll go in for a few hours," Dorian says. He squirms a little, trying to get out from under Bull, but Bull grabs his hip and holds him still.

"Alarm's going off in six minutes," Bull says. "Gimme until then?"

It's not that Dorian wants to get away, so much as he doesn't want Bull to feel obligated to stay and take care of him. Actually, what he really wants is to rewind to last night and keep his mouth shut, instead of blurting out that whole stupid story. It doesn't matter anymore, so why did it feel like his mouth was no longer taking orders from his brain, spilling details of things Dorian's never told anyone except Max? Even Mae doesn't know all of it.

Maybe he can set a record as the first person to literally die of embarrassment.

"I like this," Bull says, his hand stroking up Dorian's side. "Unless I'm crushing you."

The touch is firm enough not to be sexual, but it is soothing. "I'm fine."

"Then do you mind? It's just a couple minutes."

Dorian has a sneaking suspicion that Bull is doing this for him, rather than because he wants to, but it's impossible to be absolutely sure. On the off chance that Bull really does mean it, he'd be an asshole to say no. "All right," he says.

Bull hums in his ear, his hand wandering back down Dorian's ribs to rest on his hip. "This is nice."

His thumb is stroking gentle arcs on Dorian's skin, and while he probably doesn't mean it to be a turn-on, it sort of is. Under normal circumstances, Dorian could ignore the vague interest it stirs up in his body, but right now, it's the perfect distraction.

"It is nice," he agrees, trying to burrow farther under Bull's body. Dropping his voice low, he adds, "You know what would be nicer?"

"This is pretty nice," Bull says, sleepy and amused.

"Or you could fuck me like this," Dorian says.

Bull makes another pleased noise in his ear. "I could," he says. His hips move slightly, rubbing his half-hard dick against Dorian's ass, and Dorian arches up into him, increasing the pressure. "Except I have work, and I admit I was kinda hoping I could persuade you to make French toast again, and I'm guessing that needs some time."

Dorian frowns in confusion. "French toast?"

"It was really good," Bull says, and he sounds just the slightest bit defensive. "I don't have a lot of time to cook, so mostly I live on sandwiches and anything that comes in a can." He turns his head and nips at the curve of Dorian's ear. "If we can postpone 'til tonight, I promise to blow you until your eyes roll back."

A strange combination of lust and amusement stabs through Dorian's gut. "That's not a particularly sexy image," he protests, mostly for form's sake.

"You naked, blissed out from having just come so hard you can't even see straight?" Bull asks, and Dorian inhales sharply. "Sounds pretty sexy to me."

"You're not making a very good case for me getting out of this bed any time soon," Dorian says, only a little breathless.

Bull chuckles, and Dorian shivers. "Like I said," Bull starts, but then the alarm is beeping, and he groans, rolling away to slap at it. As soon as it's quiet, he comes back to whisper in Dorian's ear, "Tonight."

Dorian makes a grab for him, but he's already gone, headed for the bathroom, and Dorian groans. "That's not very nice," he calls.

"I know," Bull calls back cheerfully. "Make me French toast, and I'll make it up to you tonight."

"Or maybe I'll just stay right here and jerk off."

"You could do that," Bull agrees. Dorian rolls over to find him grinning from the bathroom door. He has his mouth open to say something, but then his eye scans Dorian from head to foot and his expression changes to something a little hungrier. "Or you could wait," he says at last, and his tone promises, "I'll make it worth your while."

Dorian groans and chucks a pillow at him. "Fuck you," he says.

Bull knocks the pillow out of the air, grinning. "Tonight," he says. "If that's what you want."

The bathroom door shuts while Dorian is still gaping at him.

He drops back onto the bed with a groan and gives serious thought to doing as he'd threatened, jerking himself off while Bull is in the shower. He's half hard already, and just thinking about what Bull said is getting him harder. It's not like he thinks Bull is actually going to turn him down tonight for jerking off this morning.

No, Dorian realizes. Bull wouldn't turn him down, because Bull will treat it as taking care of him again. His sudden desire for French toast is the same thing, the same as his professed interest in cuddling this morning: taking care of Dorian in ways that are difficult to fight against effectively, because of that small chance they might really be what Bull wants.

A small voice in the back of Dorian's head points out that the two aren't mutually exclusive, that Bull could be using a real interest in cuddling as a way to take care of him, but it's a very small voice, and it's easily drowned out by the louder chorus of doubts and fears. Rather than listen to any of it, Dorian gets up and throws on a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Not exactly sexy, but that's about how he's feeling right now, so what the hell.

Downstairs in the kitchen, he starts on breakfast, which is at least easy enough he can do it on auto-pilot. By the time Bull gets to the table, Dorian has a stack of French toast in the oven and an anxiety attack well under way. His heart is beating too fast, and his skin feels clammy, and the voices in his head are in fine form, explaining to him in detail all the things he did wrong this morning, last night, and ever.

At least he's got enough practice hiding his emotions that his hands don't shake as he sets a plate in front of Bull, who starts in immediately, foregoing butter and syrup in favor of cutting a huge bite. He puts it in his mouth and makes a pleased noise, almost identical to the one he made earlier in bed.

"This is amazing," he says, drawing out the words until they end on a sigh.

"It's French toast," Dorian points out. "It's not exactly difficult."

"Good!" Bull says enthusiastically. "Then you won't mind making more."

Even with the litany in his head, Dorian smiles. "There's more in the kitchen."

"Great," Bull says, and eats another bite.

He inhales a truly prodigious quantity, which is maybe just as well, since Dorian wasn't thinking very clearly when he cooked up the whole loaf. What was he planning on doing with a pound of leftovers anyway? He doesn't mind reheating it, but he doesn't usually eat breakfast, and it would go bad long before he managed to finish it, if Bull wasn't doing his best to decimate the stack.

After the first one, he drowns every slice in butter and syrup, and Dorian watches in bemusement as the fill line on the syrup bottle drops rapidly. Estimating exactly how much syrup Bull is eating is a lot better than listening to his brain, though his heart is still beating too fast as he drinks his coffee. Maybe he should have gone for decaf this morning.

Bull slows down as the bottom of the stack approaches, and there are still a couple pieces left on the serving plate when he sets aside his fork. "Amazing," he says again, smiling contentedly.

Dorian drains the last of his coffee and comes around the table to pick up Bull's plate, but he's barely touched it when Bull grabs his wrist and pulls him down. He ends up straddling Bull's lap, facing the table, hands braced on the edge to keep himself from falling forward.

"This is pretty nice, too," Bull says, his hands sliding under Dorian's t-shirt.

"I thought we weren't doing this now," Dorian asks. With the shame of everything he said last night burning under his skin, he's definitely not interested anymore.

"We're not," Bull says. "But I like touching you, and I've got a couple minutes before I need to go." His hands are warm and firm, thumbs digging into the muscles along Dorian's spine with persistent force. It's impossible not to relax a little under the pressure, and Dorian lets his head sag forward. The massage doesn't last very long, but when Bull kisses the back of his neck, he's almost calm.

The calm curdles into something else as he lets Bull out the front door and spots the newspaper lying on his front step. Until Bull reminded him last week, he'd mostly forgotten why it was he still subscribed to an actual, physical paper. Now he can't look at it without thinking about his parents.

Apparently he's a masochist, because rather than dump it straight into the recycling, he carries it to the table and sits, laying the paper out the way he has every Sunday morning for years. He smooths the center fold, flattening it out so he can turn the pages more easily, then inhales the smell of newsprint and lets the memories roll over him, beautiful and sharp.

His father leaning over him, one hand on his shoulder while the other underlines something on the page, his voice warm and amused as he explains how to read the chart.

His mother sitting cross-legged beside him on the floor, sipping her coffee and nodding encouragement while he lies on his stomach with the paper spread out in front of him and struggles through some of the longer words in the article he's reading aloud to her.

Both of his parents rigid in the front seat of the car, the radio playing something obscenely cheerful as he watches the miles pass outside the window and tells himself he's happy to be going to this place, where he'll learn to do better, to be better, to not disappoint them again.

Dorian props his elbows on the table and lets his face drop into his hand, fingers digging into his scalp. He's probably getting newsprint on his elbows, but he really doesn't care right now. This is why he doesn't talk about what happened, why he tries not to even think about it, because once the memories start, he can't stop the flood.

His phone buzzes its text notification from the other end of the table, and for a second, he considers ignoring it. It'll be Bull, trying to take care of him, and the last thing Dorian wants is to be somebody's project. He's thinking seriously about ignoring it when it buzzes with a second text.

Dorian eyes it with disfavor but gets up anyway, hitting the button with more force than necessary. He doesn't even know what he'll say, because Bull-

Except the texts aren't from Bull. They're from Max. The first one just says, _You ok?_ but the second one says, _Call me when you get this._

Normally a text like that from Max wouldn't make Dorian blink. This morning, however, hasn't even had a nodding acquaintance with normal, and Dorian's stomach turns over. Still, better to get it over with, whatever it is. He places a mental bet with himself as the phone rings, whether Max is calling to complain about the party or about Bull.

"You're up early," Max says in lieu of a greeting.

"Good morning to you, too," Dorian says.

"Don't be an ass, especially not after I went to that damn party for you."

"You started it," Dorian says, in his best imitation of a petulant five-year-old.

"Did not," Max says, matching his tone.

Despite himself, Dorian is starting to smile. "So did you want something, or did you just feel the need to monitor my sleep habits?"

"Checking on you," Max says, serious now. "How are you this morning?"

Dorian opens his mouth to blow him off with a lie, but his lungs freeze and his throat works soundlessly for a while before Max says, "All right, bright boy, don't think for one second that I'm going to let you lie to me."

"Fuck you," Dorian says out of habit. "You could have just texted me."

"Why?" Max demands. "To make it easier for you to lie? Tell me how you're doing, and I'll go away."

Dorian wants to be pissed, he really does, but he's known Max too long--they've been friends too long--and instead he laughs, even if it is a little strangled.

"That good?" Max asks, before Dorian can scrape together a coherent sentence. "Tell me again why we even went to that party, if we would all rather have had our eyes gouged out with a sharp stick?"

"Better than a dull stick," Dorian says, because this is part of their friendship, too.

"Mmm, yes, there's a rousing endorsement," Max drawls. "If you're done being a smartass, can I get an answer to at least one of my questions? Bettor's choice."

Why they went to the party, or how Dorian is feeling. He's not actually sure which one he wants to talk about less. It's a close call, that's for sure, so he tries to edge around both of them. "I thought the party wasn't too bad, actually."

"For being jabbed with a sharp stick? Definitely."

"Oh, come on," Dorian says. "It was only a light prodding."

"Then what's wrong?" Max says, and right now, Dorian hates him for being too fucking perceptive. "Don't tell me you had a fight with Bull right when I'm starting to like him."

"It's not Bull," Dorian says. Which is mostly true. It's only indirectly Bull, and only because Dorian hates the thought of Bull sticking around for fear of upsetting him. He wants Bull around because Bull wants to be there, not because Bull thinks he's too emotionally fragile to be left alone.

"Talk, Pavus," Max says. "Or I'll come over there and we can have this conversation in person."

"I told him-" Dorian starts, then freezes again, his heart pounding so hard it's making him sick.

"Told him...?" Max says, after a long silence. When Dorian still can't get his mouth working, Max asks, "If I have to guess, Vanna, can I at least buy a vowel?"

Dorian half laughs, half gasps, and spits out, "I told him about-" His mouth tries to stop again, but he doesn't let it. "-about the camp."

There's a weird sound on the other end of the phone, something between a clunk and a splash, and Max says, "Fucking _fuck_ ," is a low, fervent voice. "You told him _what_?"

"You heard me," Dorian says, because he's not going to struggle his way through it again.

"Fuck," Max says. "Jesus, Mary, and motherfucking _Joseph_." He mutters something that might be the same words, then says in a more normal voice, "And he took it badly? Because I was starting to like him, but I can go right back to hating him, no prob-"

"What part of 'It's not Bull' did you not understand?" Dorian snaps.

"The part where you're a fucking unreliable witness," Max snaps right back. "How many times did you have to apologize for telling him?"

"None," Dorian says through gritted teeth, glossing over all the times he actually did apologize last night, because it's not like Bull asked him to.

"Really," Max says, drawing the word out skeptically.

"Yes, really." There are too many things clattering around in Dorian's head right now, and the words just slip out. "He told me _not_ to apologize, actually."

Max doesn't say anything for a long time, and Dorian takes the opportunity to correct himself. "He _asked_ me not to."

On the other end of the phone, Max takes a deep breath, which is something Dorian really wishes his lungs would let him do right now. "All right," Max says, speaking slowly and precisely. "I'm going to hang up this phone. Then I'm going to check that I didn't give myself third-degree burns when I dropped my coffee. Assuming I don't require immediate medical treatment for that _or_ my heart attack, I'm going to clean up this mess, change my clothes, and meet you for breakfast. Pick a place, or I will."

"I need to go to work," Dorian says, a little desperately. "I've got an ESOP to review before tomorrow."

"Fuck your ESOP, and fuck work. Meet me for breakfast, or I will come to your fucking office, and we will have this conversation there."

Dorian looks back down the table at the last few pieces of French toast. They're cold now, but he could warm them up easily, and-

His hands clench into fists. No. Just fucking no. He's not hiding in this house as if he did something wrong, as if he's the one with something to be ashamed of. He got past these memories once, and he can do it again, and he is not fourteen fucking years old anymore.

"Pick somewhere," he snaps, anger making his tone harsher than he meant.

That pulls Max up short again. "You sure?" he asks, and his earlier anger is gone.

He's giving Dorian an out, letting him back up and say, "Meet me here," and Dorian is incredibly sick of people taking care of him right now. "Pick somewhere," he repeats, then adds, "Somewhere expensive."

###

Max's definition of expensive is, indeed, quite expensive, but the fact that he could get them a table at all, on an hour's notice on a Sunday morning, is the real statement. Dorian acknowledges it with a sideways smile as he picks up his menu. "Show off."

"What?" Max protests innocently. "I haven't been here in a while, and I know you love their eggs benedict. So stop pretending to read the menu, because we both know what you're ordering, and tell me what the hell happened."

Dorian ignores him deliberately, perusing the menu as if Max is wrong about what he's going to eat. "What are you thinking about having?"

"Your balls, if you don't cut it the fuck out." Max reaches across the table and grabs his wrist, forcing the menu down. It's so unlike him that Dorian looks up, surprised, to find Max frowning at him in concern.

A timely interruption from their server would be nice, but Dorian doubts he'll be that lucky. "I'm fine."

"Dorian," Max says quietly. "Please don't lie to me. I love you, and I'm trying to figure out if I need to schedule time to kill a few people this afternoon."

"Or vandalize the occasional car?" Dorian asks, smiling faintly.

"That, too." Max releases him and leans back, but he doesn't pick up his menu. "What happened?"

"I don’t even know what you're trying to ask." Exasperated, Dorian closes his menu and sets it aside, but he's barely opened his mouth when the interruption he no longer wants appears at his elbow.

"He'll have the eggs benedict," Max says to the server, before Dorian can change gears. "With asparagus. I'll have the crepes, and a Bloody Mary."

"Now there's a delicious combination," Dorian teases, when the server has disappeared with their menus.

"I've decided to rethink my opinions on pickling my liver at a young age. Why put it off when I can get started today? And speaking of putting things off...." He raises his eyebrows meaningfully at Dorian.

"What do you want to know?" Dorian asks impatiently. "I told him what happened, he asked a few questions, I elaborated. You're already privy to all the sordid details, so what, pray tell, are you looking for?"

"How many times did you apologize?" Max asks. "An estimate is acceptable. Ten to twenty? Twenty to thirty? More than thirty?"

"Once or twice," Dorian hedges. "And there's nothing wrong with apologizing for bringing up an unpleasant subject." He rubs his forehead over his eye, where he can already feel a headache forming. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"Why?" Max says. He's more curious than angry, which is definitely unexpected.

"Why what?" Dorian asks, because he's still not sure what Max is after.

"Why shouldn't you have told him? You said he didn't take it badly. That he told you not to apologize for it."

"Asked," Dorian corrects. "He didn't _tell_ me. He asked me." Why the distinction is important to him, he can't say, only that it is.

By the look he gets, Max might have some thoughts on the matter, but he just says, "Excuse me. He _asked_ you not to apologize, for which I give the man full marks for patience. So why shouldn't you have said anything?"

Dorian tries to put words to the mess inside him, and fails. "It upset him," he says at last, which is more true than anything else he can think of.

"What about you?" Max asks softly.

Having this conversation in a restaurant--any public place--is starting to feel like a very bad idea. "What about me?"

Their server returns with Max's drink, there and gone so smoothly Dorian wouldn't normally have noticed him, except that he's painfully aware of everyone around them right now.

"All right," Max says, curling his fingers around his glass without lifting it. "Forget whether it upset Bull. Forget what your mother would think. Hell, forget what I think, and you know I don't say that lightly."

Dorian snorts. He does it because it's expected, part of their normal back and forth, but somehow, it's so routine that it's soothing.

"Forget all that," Max says. He takes a sip of his drink, then says, enunciating each word, "Did you want to tell him?" Dorian opens his mouth, but Max holds up one finger. "Yes or no."

The word sits on his tongue as he tastes it, feels the shape of it and tries to decide if it's true. At last, he says, "Yes."

Max nods once. "After you told him, was he upset with you?"

"I'm not-"

"Yes or no," Max says. "This is a true-false test, Pavus, no essays allowed. And don't bullshit me that you don't know. Was he upset _with you_?"

Dorian considers a number of responses, aimed more at Max than at his question, but eventually he gives up and deliberately lets the memories rush forward. There's a brief flurry, and when it settles, he's left with Bull's hand, wrapped so gently around his wrist.

His own hand doesn't tremble as he picks up his water glass and takes a careful sip. Max waits patiently, or as patiently as Max does anything, until Dorian sets down his glass and says, "No. He wasn't upset with me."

Max nods again. Dorian waits for him to ask why, to probe for explanations Dorian can't give, but he just asks, "Are you sorry you told him?"

"He's-" Dorian begins, only to have Max interrupt him again.

"I don't care whether _he's_ sorry," Max says, "or whether you think he's sorry, or whether you think he should be sorry. Are _you_ sorry?"

Max asks the question like it's easy, like there's some bright-line test Dorian can use to tell yes from no. How is he supposed to answer _without_ considering how Bull feels about it? Because if Dorian's babbling has endangered this relationship, then that matters, it matters a lot, and it's not something he can just dismiss as irrelevant.

The question is a weight crushing him, but they're in public, and he's spent too much of his life learning to hide everything but what he wants other people to see. He breathes slowly, evenly, and doesn't try to fight it when the masks come up. Bull would challenge him on it, Dorian's already spent enough time with him to know that, but Max just waits, sipping his drink and watching the pedestrians passing by the window. For someone who used to fidget while waiting for minute rice to cook, Max can be endlessly patient at the most annoying times.

It helps, though. Max isn't picking at his walls, not by so much as a glance, and knowing that he can still put those walls up helps slow Dorian's heart. He's in control. He's safe.

"I don't know," he says, and this time, Max doesn't interrupt to force him to answer yes or no. Which is just as well, because Dorian doesn't have an answer that fits either one. "I don't want to blow up this relationship because I shared too much, too soon."

"But you would have shared it eventually?"

Trust Max to put his finger down on the part Dorian is still trying to sort out. "I...think so. Yes. Just not this soon."

Max looks back at him now, the corners of his mouth quirking up. "Pavus," he says, shaking his head in mock-sorrow. "You dragged the man to your father's deathbed on your first date. I think you're already beyond any hope of doing this relationship on a 'normal' schedule."

Dorian laughs, just a short huff of breath. "All right, maybe." He rubs his forehead again, where the headache is still threatening. "But I don't want to be his current project. Some kind of...of...emotional handyman's special."

"And is he handy?" Max asks slyly.

Dorian's laugh is longer, this time. "Yes, very handy." He thinks about the question again, and the laugh dies, because suddenly it's a little too on-point. "I'm sure he'd do an excellent job of fixing me up for the next person."

"Maybe he wants to fix you up for himself," Max says, then rolls his eyes. "Trust you to turn flipping houses into a metaphor for your relationship. Ugh. If you start talking about return on investment, I'm rescinding my invitation and you can pay for your own breakfast."

"How would you calculate that?" Dorian asks, momentarily diverted and happy to be so. "I suppose his investment would be time, but what about the return? Orgasms received, perhaps?"

"I'm going to go out on a limb," Max says dryly, "and suggest that orgasms aren't all the man wants from you."

Before Dorian can think of a response, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Ignoring it would be the polite thing to do, but he needs a little distance from Max's question right now, and besides, they've known each other twenty years. Answering his phone while eating with Max is hardly the worst thing they've done to each other.

It's Mae, and Dorian smothers a wince, because he knows why she's calling. She's just waited a little later than Max. "Hi, Mae," he says, forcing his tone smooth.

"Hello, pet," Mae says cheerfully. "You know why I'm calling, so shall we cut to the chase?"

At least she's not trying to pretend, any more than Max did. "I'm fine," Dorian says patiently. "Max beat you to it and dragged me out for breakfast."

"Oh, is the delinquent there?" she asks. "Let me talk to him for a second."

It makes Dorian more than a little nervous, but he holds the phone out to Max anyway, then tries to guess at the conversation. Max's side isn't terribly informative: mostly acknowledging noises mixed in with the occasional monosyllable, until he's handing the phone back and shaking his head.

Putting the phone back to his ear, Dorian asks Mae, "What was that about?" Not the he's really expecting an answer.

"Oh, this and that," she says airily. "Just making sure we're interfering in every possible aspect of your life. Give my love to Bull!" And she's gone.

Dorian points at Max with the hand holding the phone and almost ends up with a lapful of eggs benedict as their server tries to put his plate in front of him at the same time. A quick grab averts the crisis, though it takes a little longer to assure the waiter that no harm was done.

As soon as he's gone, Dorian points his phone at Max again and says, "Talk."

Max rolls his eyes. "She's worried about you and felt the need to threaten me with various gruesome fates if I was bothering you unduly right now."

"That's what I don't want," Dorian says, finally putting his finger on the right words. "I don't want to be taken care of. Not by you, not by Mae, not by Bull."

"Too bad," Max says, picking up his fork to cut into his crepes. "That's what we do with people we care about, and Bull clearly does care."

Dorian barely manages to restrain a twitch.

"Try to be a little less of a cliché," Max says without looking up from his food.

"What are you talking about?" Dorian asks, harpooning a piece of asparagus with his fork, hard enough that the tines scrape across the plate.

"You know what. That face you just made."

Dorian briefly considers harpooning Max, then puts the asparagus in his mouth and chews deliberately instead. When he's chewed it into mush, he swallows and says, "You weren't even looking at me."

Now Max does look up, one eyebrow raised. "And you think I need to be looking at you to know how you're reacting?"

"Fuck you," Dorian says, just as the waiter materializes at his elbow to ask about the food.

He unmaterializes just as fast, and Max shakes his head. "Now look, you've lost me my chance for another Bloody Mary."

"It's ten in the morning," Dorian points out. "Personally, I'd consider one to be excessive, much less two."

"Not all of us have to work today," Max says smugly.

"Yes, but you will anyway," Dorian says, just as smugly.

Max's lips quirk in a brief smile. "Have to keep the minions in line. But we digress, and don't think I didn't notice." He points his fork in Dorian's direction, stabbing the air once for emphasis. "The man likes you, and he's definitely hanging around for more than just sex."

"Because you would know anything about that," Dorian mutters, just loud enough for Max to hear.

"I would," Max says quietly. "Would I be here right now if I didn't?"

Dorian closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Sorry. That was uncalled for."

"Yes, well, I'll mark it up to temporary insanity, brought on by too much time around your mother. And speaking of your mother, that would be the first item on my list of reasons why I say he likes you for more than your ability to suck his dick."

Which is, of course, the point where the waiter makes his second attempt to enquire about the food. The man is too well trained to freeze or gape, but he also isn't above making another hasty retreat.

Dorian tries not to snort hollandaise up his nose. "You owe him a nice tip, you know."

Max looks offended, the way he didn't a minute ago. "Have you ever known me to be less than generous with my tips?"

"My apologies," Dorian says, with all the sarcasm he can muster.

"Noted, but as I was _saying_ ," Max gives him a look that says he's not going to be derailed for anything short of the building catching fire, and even that will only result in a temporary hiatus, "the man spent how many hours at your mother's party? As emotional blackmail isn't particularly your style, I have to assume he went along at least semi-willingly. Which means either you give the kind of blowjobs I thought only existed in porn, or he's interested in more than sex."

"Well, I don't like to _brag_..." Dorian says meaningfully, then holds up his hands, laughing, when Max looks like he might be about to throw his fork.

"Joke all you like, bright boy," Max says with a superior smile, "but you know I'm right. And as much as it feels like regressing to high school to say this, I'll say it anyway. He likes you."

No longer laughing, Dorian prods at another asparagus spear and doesn't look at Max as he says, "But for how long? Let's be honest, my drama does seem to take over our lives a disproportionate amount of the time."

"Then don't let it," Max says. When Dorian scowls at him, Max gives him a look like he's a very slow child. "If you're so opposed to the current direction of your relationship, do something about it. Take the man on a date, for the love of Jesus. A real date, which would mean no bars and no hospitals."

"I'm familiar with the concept of a date," Dorian says acidly. "You'll pardon me if I'm surprised that _you_ are."

"My, someone's catty today," Max drawls. "Just because I don't want to settle into monotony...excuse me, monogamy, doesn't mean the idea of romance is alien to me."

Dorian sets his fork aside before he starts tapping it on his plate out of nerves. "I really am an ass today, aren't I?"

"You've been worse," Max says dismissively. "And so have I. Stop trying to turn this into a pity party. Either accept that the man likes to take care of people, which is blindingly obvious even to me, and will continue to do so if you let him, or do something to change your relationship dynamic."

"Have you been reading self-help books?" Dorian asks, deflecting mostly out of habit.

"Why do I need to, when I'm so brilliant on my own?" Max drains his glass and makes eye contact with someone behind Dorian, presumably their waiter. "Try not to say anything embarrassing for the next two minutes, please."

As tempting as it is to say something wildly inappropriate right then, Dorian manages to resist. Mostly because he can't think of anything suitable before it's too late.

Max's drink refreshed and the deliciousness of their meals finally established, the waiter takes himself off, but any hopes Dorian might have been entertaining about changing the subject vanish when Max looks at him sternly. "So. Are you choosing door number one, or door number two?"

"What if..." Dorian stops and takes a deep breath, forcing himself to stillness. They're in public, and he won't let himself lose control in front of this many witnesses. Which is why he wanted to have this conversation in a restaurant: if they were in private, he might scream right now.

When he's confident his voice won't shake, he says, "What if taking care of me _is_ the thing that's keeping him around? What if that's the attraction?"

Max doesn't answer immediately, his eyes turned up toward the ceiling in a thoughtful frown. After a slow sip of his drink, he asks, "Is that what you want?"

"No," Dorian says, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "I know where you're going with this, but don't pretend it's that easy."

"It's not," Max agrees, still looking at the ceiling as if it might reveal some deep mystery to him. He takes another careful sip of his drink before he says, "But if you want to take the easy path, then that's fine."

"Fuck. You."

"What, here? _Now?_ Should we invite the waiter, after the way you've been teasing him all morning?"

"You're an asshole," Dorian says, hiding a smile behind his water glass.

"If you're only just now figuring that out, you're not nearly as smart as all those diplomas on your wall led me to expect." Max's gaze hasn't left the ceiling, but now he's smirking at it.

"Oh, I've known it for years," Dorian says. "I just felt like it bore repeating."

"If it makes you feel better," Max says in his most patronizing tone. "And I give you full marks for your A-plus attempts to change the subject, but you might as well give up. It's not going to work. I'm not buying you breakfast just so you can flirt with the waiter."

About to take a sip of water, Dorian almost inhales it instead. "If this is your definition of flirting, I don't know how you ever manage to get a date."

"Ah, but now you at least admit I know what they are. And since we're on the subject of dates, where will you be taking Bull?"

"You don't ever give up, do you?"

"Once again: this should certainly not be news by this point." Max raises his glass in a toast.

"All right," Dorian says, surrendering. "What do you suggest, oh wise one? Dinner and a movie?"

"That's so passé," Max says, lip curling in a sneer. "You want something personal, something that shows you've been paying attention. What does he do with his spare time?"

Dorian tries to think of an answer besides "sleep" or "fuck me", and when he can't, his stomach clenches. "He works long hours, he doesn't exactly have a lot of extra time."

"Meaning, you don't know." Max shakes his head sadly. "Which is why people go on dates, to learn things about each other. And stop trying to turn this into a disaster, you haven't known him _that_ long. It's acceptable to not know much about him at this stage in the proceedings."

"I'm not turning this into a disaster," Dorian protests.

Max looks at him for five long seconds, through two very slow blinks, then goes on as if Dorian hadn't spoken. "So what _do_ you know about him?"

"Do you think you could come up with a question that's _more_ open-ended?" Dorian asks, then adds the first thing that pops into his head. "He was in the army for twenty-something years. He only retired because of his eye."

Max's eyebrows go up briefly. "Do you know what rank he was when he retired?"

"First sergeant," Dorian says, because that was easy to research, with Bull's rank patches right there in the case beside the medals. Reminded of those medals, he fixes Max with a considering stare. "You have a few government contracts, don't you?"

"Skyhold does," Max corrects. "I, personally, do not."

"It's your company," Dorian says in exasperation. "You know what I meant."

"I do, but I don't see how it has anything to do with anything," Max says.

Dorian debates several answers and takes the conversational high road, not least because he's more interested in getting information than in counting coup in their never-ending war of words. He pulls out his phone and flips to the picture he took of Bull's display case of medals. "Is this as impressive as it looks?"

Max accepts the phone and studies it for a long time, his lips pursed as he zooms and scrolls. When Dorian finds himself tapping his fingers on the table, he gives up waiting and says, "Well?"

"Have you asked the man himself about these?" Max says, handing the phone back with a neutral expression.

"He doesn't like to talk about it," Dorian says. "About anything to do with his time in the army."

That gets him a curious look. "How so?"

"It's come up a few times," Dorian says. "He always changes the subject, and he was...tense when he saw me looking at these." He waves the phone by way of explanation before shoving it back in his pocket.

Max has returned to staring at the ceiling, as if he's praying for patience. "It made him tense when you looked at the case, and you're still looking for more details because...?"

"I want to know," Dorian protests. "And I know it's a sensitive subject," Bull's recoil when he tried to kiss the scar is branded into his memory, "so it seemed better not to ask him."

There's no reading the expression on Max's face, but he finally answers the original question. "Yes, it's as impressive as it looks. Now then. Dates."

"Dates," Dorian agrees, though not without a roll of his eyes. "Though I'm not sure how knowing he was in the army helps anything."

Max lowers his gaze from the ceiling to give Dorian the same look he probably levels at his junior programmers when they do something stupid. "You must have spent some time around him not fucking. What did you do?"

"Talk about my parents?" Dorian says, perhaps a little more aggressively than he meant.

"Not the whole time, I hope. Stop looking for the smartass answer and give it some actual thought, bright boy."

"What is this?" Dorian asks. "The fucking Inquisition?"

"Yes," Max says, unperturbed. "Which would, of course, make me Head Inquisitor. So answer my question, or there will be thumbscrews."

"I'll show you where you can put your thumbscrews," Dorian says.

Max makes a disapproving noise. "Now, now. I said I don't want to know about your kinky sex life. I'm only concerned with planning this date. What you do afterward is between you and Bull."

"I have been on dates before," Dorian points out. "I do actually know how to do this."

"Really?" Max says, with too much surprise. "So you wouldn't be the Dorian Pavus who was nearly hyperventilating a few minutes ago at the mere thought?"

Dorian chases the last of his asparagus rather than answer, because he has no intention of admitting Max is right, but that doesn't leave him much in the way of responses. Instead, he turns the idea over in his head, feeling rusty gears starting to grind against each other. It's been a long time since he went on a date, and longer since he initiated one, but the idea is definitely growing on him.

Apparently aware that he's won, Max says nothing else as he washes down his crepes with the last of his Bloody Mary, a combination Dorian still finds vaguely repellant. Not that he says so, not when most of his attention is turned inward, flicking through memories. He's even managed to come up with a few ideas by the time they're standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, blinking a little in the heat and sunshine.

As they stand at the corner waiting for the light to change, he takes a deep breath, pulling in air until he almost coughs, then lets it back out slowly. His skin no longer feels stretched too thin, like it might tear under the pressure of his emotions. To say he's calm would be an overstatement, but the weight of shame and fear is gone.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

Max smiles faintly at him, just one corner of his mouth turning up. "You're welcome." Then, to Dorian's surprise and mild embarrassment, Max turns to take his face in both hands and kiss the middle of his forehead. "Any time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I actually need to say it at this point, or can we just take it as read that this chapter was not supposed to be this long? This chapter, and the last one, and the next one were all supposed to be one chapter.


	22. In Spite of Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in spite of everything  
> which breathes and moves,since Doom  
> (with white longest hands  
> neatening each crease)  
> will smooth entirely our minds
> 
> -before leaving my room  
> i turn,and(stooping  
> through the morning)kiss  
> this pillow,dear  
> where our heads lived and were.
> 
> e. e. cummings  
> *********************************************************************  
> So y'all should thank three people for the fact that I finished this chapter now, and not in three months.
> 
> not_poignant, for getting me to think about what dates with Rilienus would have been like  
> nikchick, for brainstorming date ideas (their idea doesn't show up until date #2, but it got me thinking)  
> meelah, for helping me get the remaining chapters into an order that actually made sense
> 
> I bow before their collective awesomeness.

As he drives to work, Dorian spends so much time thinking about dates that he almost works himself into another fit of anxiety. Before he manages to take it quite that far, he thinks of Max's face, one eyebrow raised skeptically, and Max's voice saying, "Come on, bright boy."

It makes him laugh a little, at Max and at himself.

Not that it helps him think of what he and Bull could do for a date. His breakfast with Max threw an unfortunate spotlight on exactly how good Bull has been about deflecting any conversations about himself, like the inverse of that old joke: "But enough about me, let's talk about you. What do you think about me?" And while Dorian can resolve to block those attempts in the future, it doesn't give him much to go on right now.

That he's woefully out of practice doesn't help. He and Livius hadn't been much for dates, and before that, Rilienus had always taken the lead after Dorian's one disastrous attempt.

Dorian frowns at the stoplight in front of him, more because of the memory than because the light is red. The date hadn't been anything exceptional, just dinner at a nice restaurant Rilienus had been interested in trying, but everything had gone wrong. Rilienus had trouble finding parking, the food turned out to be only adequate, and the server was inattentive to the point of rudeness.

Between one second and the next, the memory turns sideways, and Dorian's heart gives a single heavy beat. Had the server really been rude, or had Rilienus merely suggested that he was, and then acted as if it were true? Dorian knows enough about people to know what kind of effect that would have: there's nothing like being treated badly to make anyone unfriendly.

And had the food actually failed to live up to the reviews, or had Rilienus simply made that small face that meant he didn't like something? It was hardly more than a curl of the lip, the faintest wrinkling of his nose, but Dorian's spent his entire life reading people. It wasn't hard to tell that the food hadn't met Rilienus's standards.

And the parking. It was undeniably bad in that part of town, but no worse than at any of a dozen other restaurants Rilienus had taken him to over the years. Even if it had been worse, how had Rilienus managed to make it seem like that was Dorian's fault? Like this was just another example of Dorian's inability to plan anything?

Behind him, someone honks and Dorian jumps, though it isn't that unexpected blast of a horn that's making him shake. There's no telling how long he's been sitting here, distracted, staring at a green light. He hits the gas a little too hard, making the tires squeal before he remembers what he's doing, and he tries to keep his attention on the road for the rest of the drive.

His hands having stopped trembling by the time he gets to work, and something stubborn has taken root in his chest. While his computer boots up, he does a few quick searches on his phone and finds that the restaurant he went to with Rilienus is still in business. They even do lunch, and it's the work of a few seconds to make an online reservation. To hell with Max and his "dinner is so passé."

Then he shuts all of it aside, focusing on the ESOP he's supposed to be reviewing and on the emails that seem to breed whenever he's not looking. Why do people insist on replying just to say "you're welcome"? In theory, he appreciates the courtesy, but in reality, all it does is clutter up his inbox, along with the emails from people who seem unaware that they can use reply instead of reply-all.

Sorting through his email doesn't exactly put him in a good mood, or leave him kindly disposed toward any form of text-based communication. So when he's finished what he came to do, he forces himself to pick up his phone and actually call Bull.

"H'lo?" Bull says in that brusque voice that makes Dorian wince.

_Not personal,_ he reminds himself. _It's not personal._ "Hey," he says. "Your phone manners are terrible."

Bull laughs. "Sorry. I'm working on it, I swear. What's up?"

"How do you feel about dates?" Dorian asks, before he loses his nerve.

"What, the things on the calendar?"

"Mmmm, I meant the other kind," Dorian says dryly. "The kind that generally involve two people and dinner reservations. Though in our case, lunch seems like it might work better."

Objectively, the pause that follows is barely half a second long, but for Dorian, it feels like an hour before Bull says, "Sure, that'd be fun. Got a day in mind?" He sounds a little surprised, but pleasantly so, and Dorian eases his death grip on his phone.

"Do you have plans this Tuesday?"

"Don't you have to work?"

It would be easy to hear that as an attempt to back out of the date. Dorian takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he's talking to Bull. "The advantage to being a partner is that occasionally, I can take a long lunch if I want to. I'll work a couple extra hours on Saturday to make up for it."

He'd probably be in here anyway, if he's honest. As weird as it feels to admit, he kind of likes working on the weekends. There are no people around, and he can immerse himself in whatever unusual problem someone has sent his way. He loves the intricacies of his job--the strange interweaving of state law, federal law, and legal precedent--and he doesn't get to spend nearly as much time on it as he'd like, during the workweek.

"You sure you want to do that?" Bull asks, concerned.

"It's fine," Dorian says. The words come unbidden, but he doesn't try to stop them. "I like spending time with you."

"I like spending time with you, too," Bull says. Dorian can hear the smile in his voice, and it soothes the last of his tension. "So Tuesday."

###

When Bull gets off the phone, he looks up to find Krem staring at him. "What?" he asks, touching his face like he might have something on it.

"Was that your...was that Dorian?"

Bull decides he doesn't actually want to know how Krem had planned to finish that sentence; he learned a long time ago not to push people to say things they've just thought better of saying. "Yeah, why?"

"No reason," Krem says. One corner of his mouth quirks. "You still answer the phone like a complete asshole, but at least you don't bark orders at him."

"I am never an asshole," Bull says with dignity.

"Yeah, but you answer the phone like one," Krem says, grinning.

Recognizing an argument he's not going to win--probably because Krem is right--Bull retreats to his office and his paperwork. Of which there is a never-ending supply, unfortunately. Still, Dorian's phone call makes him smile whenever he thinks of it, and he only smiles more when he gets a text shortly before he leaves work: _Your place or mine?_

He glances at the time, then replies, _If yours, will there be French toast?_

Dorian's answer comes back just as he's getting in the car. _Chances are good, if you pick up a loaf of bread._

_Deal,_ Bull types back, and it isn't until thirty minutes later, standing in the checkout line at the grocery store, that he thinks about how ridiculously domestic the whole thing is. Hard to say whether that's a good thing or a bad thing, when so much about this relationship is new territory for him. It creates a weird disconnect in his head, as he tries to fit everything together into something a little more like what he's used to, even as he's not sure he wants to.

The feeling only gets stronger when Dorian greets him at the door with a kiss that can't decide whether it's trying to start something or just saying hello. Dorian's mouth migrates from his, across his cheek and down to his neck, until it comes to a stop pressed to his throat.

"That's one way to say hello," Bull says with a smile. He shifts the grocery bag to his left hand, freeing his right to squeeze the back of Dorian's neck.

"Mmmm," Dorian agrees. Or at least, Bull thinks it's agreement, since he then also burrows his face into the hollow of Bull's collarbone and takes a firmer grip on the front of his shirt.

It's definitely more than nice, and Bull hates the thought of ruining it, but he's struggled all day not to hover over Dorian, and now he can't stop the question. "How you doing?"

Dorian's neck tightens, but he doesn't move away. "Better than I was," he says, his voice muffled. "Max dragged me out for breakfast and pointed out all the ways I was being stupid. In his own inimitable style, of course."

"Doesn't sound like fun," Bull says, pressing his fingers into the tense muscles at the base of Dorian's skull.

"We've been friends a long time," Dorian says. "He knows when he can get away with being an ass."

Since he can hear the smile in Dorian's voice, Bull decides to take that at face value and just ask, "Breakfast was good?"

"When Max picks the restaurant, it usually is," Dorian says. He kisses Bull's collarbone once, lightly, then steps back with a sigh. "Sorry, I'm a terrible host, making you stand in the hallway."

"Wasn't really paying much attention," Bull says, and waits for Dorian to look at him quizzically before adding, "I was mostly thinking about the hot guy kissing me."

Dorian laughs, and if he still looks too tired, he also looks happy.

###

They spend a little while in the kitchen, Bull leaning against the counter while Dorian finishes his dinner and washes up. Another weirdly domestic scene, but Bull's finding that he minds less and less. It's nice to just be close to Dorian, to trade stories of crazy or annoying clients without thinking about anything at all.

Except how to occasionally get in Dorian's way to steal another kiss, because Dorian smiles every time he does it.

They call it a night relatively early, and while Bull would be content to just go to sleep, he's also not going to argue when Dorian stretches out on top of him, hips rocking in slow, easy thrusts.

"I like this," Dorian murmurs out of the darkness, his hands stroking down Bull's chest.

"Oh?" Bull asks. "Any part in particular?"

"I like all your parts," Dorian says, and Bull can hear his smile. "But I was thinking more...I like the way you move. I like listening to the way your breathing changes when I do this," he bends down and sucks hard on the skin over Bull's collarbone, "or this," his fingernails scrape against Bull's ribs, and Bull twitches, rolling up to press his cock against Dorian's, "or this," and now Dorian's fingers are wrapped around his dick, grip warm and firm and confident, and Bull groans.

There's no rush to any of it, just Dorian pressed against him, and even when Dorian straightens to give himself more room to move, he still doesn't hurry. His hands alternate in lazy strokes, sometimes on Bull, sometimes on himself, sometimes touching both their dicks at once, but always as if he's got all the time in the world. Touching just to touch, not with any particular goal in mind, though all of it together is making Bull achingly hard.

"Dorian," he groans, when he's lost track of how many times Dorian's stopped stroking him just as his balls were starting to tighten.

"Yes?" Dorian asks, his hand moving easily on his own cock. His ass is clenching and unclenching against Bull's thighs, and that's not doing anything for his control, either.

"Please," Bull whispers.

"Please what?" Dorian asks, and there's a trace of something in his tone, that effortless confidence Bull has only seen him display outside the bedroom, that makes Bull's hips jerk and his chest tighten. "Do you want me to jerk you off until you come?"

For a second, Bull forgets how to breathe, then he gasps out, _"Yes."_

Dorian laughs warm and low, the laugh Bull remembers from the club, and it doesn't make it any easier for him to get air into his lungs. The hand on his cock definitely doesn't help, because Dorian is making up for lost time now, working him in fast, rough strokes with one hand while the other squeezes his balls very gently. Bull arches up into his grip, his own fingers twisted in the sheets, and then Dorian breathes, "Yes," and Bull comes, jerking and twitching as Dorian gives a pleased hum.

As soon as he can get his mouth working, Bull growls, "Get up here."

"Yes, sir," Dorian says, the laugh still in his voice. "Anywhere in particular?"

For an answer, Bull sits up enough to grab his hips and drag him forward, pulling him up to straddle Bull's waist. "Here's good for me," Bull says, pressing his thumbs into the creases at the tops of Dorian's thighs. "This work for you?"

"I'm not sure," Dorian says thoughtfully. "I think it depends on whether you're going to actually do anything, or just talk about it."

"You think I can't make you come just by talking?" Bull says, half joking.

"I think someday I'll take that as a challenge," Dorian says. His hand drops to his cock and begins to stroke deliberately. "But tonight, I have other plans."

"Really," Bull murmurs, wrapping his fingers around Dorian's to stop his strokes. "What kind of plans?"

"Guess," Dorian says, grinning and breathless, and another pleasant shiver runs through Bull's body.

"What do I get if I guess right?" Bull asks.

"Depends how many tries it takes you."

"Well then," Bull says, "I'll have to get it right on the first try, won't I?"

"I have compl-ah!" Dorian's voice breaks as Bull's hand begins to move, "-complete faith in you."

It's too dark in the room to see much detail, but Dorian's head rolling back is clear enough, his neck stretching as if he's begging for Bull's teeth. Lingering dizziness doesn't stop Bull from sitting up again, curling one arm around Dorian's back to hold them both upright as his other hand strokes Dorian's cock. Other than keeping the marks where a shirt will hide them, Bull doesn't bother being careful, biting and sucking harder as Dorian clutches at the back of his neck and groans in his ear.

When Dorian comes, every muscle in his body shakes, his fingernails leaving painful marks in Bull's skin, marks that burn and make Bull wish he could get hard again right now. But even if he can't, Dorian thrusting up into his hand is almost as good.

And Dorian slumping against him, boneless and breathless, is better.

###

It's far too early when Bull's alarm goes off, and definitely far too early to be smiling, but Dorian finds himself doing it anyway even as he pulls the pillow over his head and pretends to grumble. Apparently he isn't fooling Bull any more than he's fooling himself, because Bull comes back to bed after turning off the alarm just to rub his stubbled face in the crook of Dorian's neck until they're both laughing.

As tempting as it is to join Bull in the shower, Dorian goes downstairs and gets started on breakfast instead. They both have places to be, early, and while Dorian is content to live on coffee and sarcasm, Bull clearly prefers a more substantial breakfast. Besides, Dorian likes the way it feels, doing this for Bull, knowing it will make him happy. Who cares if it's something anyone could do? He's the one doing it.

Watching Bull eat is certainly a more than adequate reward for a small amount of work. The excessive use of syrup is clearly A Thing, and Dorian makes a note to get more, even as he smiles into his coffee.

"Would you like some French toast with your syrup?" he asks, watching the lake forming on Bull's plate.

"Sure," Bull says, grinning at him. "But not too much. Wouldn't want to overdo it."

"God forbid," Dorian agrees. "You're the soul of moderation."

"Sometimes," Bull says, and his grin turns into a smirk. "Come down here, and I'll show you moderation."

"Where's the fun in that?" Dorian asks.

"Come down here," Bull repeats, "and I'll show you."

Without breaking eye contact, Dorian gets up and closes the few feet between them. The disapproving voice in his head is muted this morning, easy to ignore as he slides into Bull's lap and kisses him. He tastes like syrup, and Dorian makes a point of licking the corners of his mouth.

Bull is chuckling when he pulls away, the sound rumbling through both of them until he puts enough distance between them to push Dorian's t-shirt up. His hands are rough and warm, and Dorian doesn't feel even a little bit self-conscious about the way his back arches.

"Bend your head down a little," Bull says, and when Dorian does, Bull pushes the hem of his t-shirt over his head, so the shirt is stretched across his upper back while leaving his chest bare. "There we go," Bull says, satisfied. He runs both palms over Dorian's chest, callouses catching on the rings in his nipples.

"For a man who has to leave for work in ten minutes," Dorian says as dryly as he can, "you don't seem to be in much of a hurry."

"I've got time," Bull says. He keeps one hand on Dorian's hip while the other reaches for something on the table.

Before Dorian can ask, Bull's hand comes back, the tip of his forefinger covered in syrup. He's smiling faintly as he draws a D on the left side of Dorian's chest, right above where the hair starts to grow.

"Seriously?" Dorian demands, but he's fighting back a smile. "Fingerpainting? Are we in kindergarten?"

Bull smirks. "I never did anything like this in kindergarten." Then he leans forward and licks the syrup back off, taking his time and getting every single bit of it.

When he straightens again, his eye is darker than it was before, and Dorian is a little breathless. "All right," Dorian says. "I take it back about being in kindergarten, but it's still fingerpainting."

"Yup," Bull agrees, going back for more syrup. "But way more fun than with paint."

This time, it takes Dorian a second to figure out what he's drawn. It feels like two D's, one stacked on top of the other, until he pictures that in his head and realizes it's a B. Why that makes him blush is a mystery, but his face is a little too warm all of a sudden.

Bull licks the syrup off again with broad, flat swipes of his tongue and the occasional scrape of teeth, and Dorian tries not to make any embarrassing noises. This really shouldn't be as hot as it is. Telling himself that does absolutely nothing about his dick, which is starting to get hard. It doesn't help that he can tell Bull's enjoying this, too, his dick starting to swell under Dorian's ass.

The third time Bull dips his fingers in the syrup, he doesn't draw anything on Dorian's chest. Instead, he touches Dorian's lips, tracing the top and then the bottom one, leaving a sticky trail that Dorian licks away without thought. Or at least, he doesn't think about it until he notices Bull's gaze is fixed on his mouth, and then he very deliberately licks his lips again.

He's thinking about doing it a third time when Bull's fingers are back, pushing into his mouth, and he does make a noise then, just a small sound deep in his throat that tightens the hand on his hip.

At first, all he can taste is butter and syrup, but as he sucks and licks, that vanishes, and it's just Bull. His hand doesn't move, his thumb resting lightly along Dorian's jaw and two fingers in his mouth up to the last knuckle. When Dorian licks at the webbing connecting them, Bull makes one of those approving noises that are way more of a turn on than they have any right to be.

Bull takes his hand back eventually, when Dorian has licked away every possible trace of syrup and they're both hard. "Here's what we're going to do," Bull says in a low voice. "I'm going to go to work, and so are you. Tonight, we're going home to our own beds, and tomorrow, I'll see you for lunch. You're not going to get yourself off, not now, not later."

Dorian raises an eyebrow to say, "Who's going to stop me?" and Bull smiles.

"I won't know if you do," Bull agrees, "but you'll know. And if you tell me tomorrow that you didn't, I'll believe you."

Those words have more weight than they should, and Dorian ignores it, the same way he's ignoring that persistent voice in his head.

"Tomorrow, after lunch, _after_ you get done at work," Bull goes on, "you're going to suck my dick exactly like you just sucked my fingers, and I'm going to watch you do it, because that has to be one of the hottest things I've ever seen."

Dorian can't look away, Bull's gaze holding him as surely as his hands ever have.

"And when we're both desperate for it, I'm going to tie you to the bed and ride your dick until we both come."

"That's not going to take very long, if I have to spend two days thinking about it," Dorian croaks out. "At least, not for me."

"Oh, I think you'll last plenty long enough," Bull says. He leans in for a kiss, just a quick brush of lips. "But I do want you to be thinking about it."

"As if I could think about anything else," Dorian says.

"Good." Bull is grinning at him again. Then he slaps Dorian lightly on the hip. "Now up, so we can go to work."

He's almost dizzy when he stands, but Bull catches him, and somehow it's funny rather than embarrassing.


	23. Red Light, Yellow Light, Green Light, Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from a song. Which song will be very clear shortly. :)

Mid-morning on Tuesday, Bull's phone buzzes with a text from Dorian: _For you, I may break my rule about ringtones._

Puzzled but willing to go along, Bull texts back, _There's a rule?_

_Yes. Don't._

Bull snickers. _Got it. Aren't you at work?_

 _Waiting on a client,_ Dorian answers. _I love idiots who play games. Make the lawyer wait. Like it's not all billable._

For a second, Bull considers asking Dorian what his billable rate is, then decides he doesn't actually want to know. He did a little digging after his conversation with Max, and that was eye-opening enough. Instead, he texts, _Ringtones. So you're breaking the rule for me. Awwww._ Just to be obnoxious, he tacks on a dozen of the most sickeningly-sweet emojis he can find.

The only answer he gets back from Dorian is a link and the word "headphones." Since he's currently sitting at his computer paying bills, home alone with no one to annoy except the spider plant Krem gave him when he moved in, he just clicks the link and cranks up the volume.

He listens to Def Leppard sing "Pour Some Sugar on Me" and laughs, then texts back, _Could be hard to explain if I call when you're in a meeting._

 _That's why there's the rule,_ Dorian replies. _Said I was thinking about it. Not that I would._

Bull grins at his phone and replays the song, then texts back what he knows Dorian wanted him to ask in the first place: _So is this an invitation?_

It's almost an hour before Dorian responds: _Maybe._ Which is followed immediately by, _What you told me not to do?_

Bull has just enough time to remember his order not to jerk off before the next text arrives: _I haven't._ There's a smirk behind those words, Bull would be willing to bet.

Since he is alone--except for the spider plant--Bull presses the heel of his hand against his dick, hard enough that the pressure is almost painful. One-handed, he texts back, _Me either_ , then has to press harder against his dick when he remembers that Dorian is almost certainly texting him from work. The thought of Dorian alone in that fancy office, dick hard under that fancy suit, is a hell of a turn-on.

 _See you in a couple hours,_ Dorian replies, and once again, Bull can picture him smirking.

Smirking a little himself, Bull texts back, _And tonight._ Then he sets the phone aside and concentrates on paying his bills, trying not to think about Dorian or Dorian's cock.

###

By the time they meet for lunch, Bull's got himself back under control, but that doesn't stop him from kissing Dorian maybe a little more thoroughly than he should, at least in public. Not that Dorian seems to object, given how reluctant he is to let go of Bull when it's over.

"How bad was the parking?" Dorian asks, after he's straightened his tie and smoothed out the wrinkles he made in Bull's t-shirt when he grabbed a fistful of it. He's a little too focused on what he's doing, but since Bull can't figure out why, he shrugs mentally and lets it go.

"No idea," he says. Dorian looks up, startled, and Bull steals another kiss. "Parking's always shit around here, so I didn't even bother looking, just parked three or four blocks over." With Dorian so close, face tilted toward his, it's impossible to resist the urge to kiss him again. "Seeing as you're such a gentleman, I figure you can walk me back to my car after lunch, and I can draw this out a little longer."

That gets him a laugh, though it doesn't sound quite right. "A dastardly plan indeed."

"Dastardly," Bull repeats, savoring the word. "Definitely. Maybe I'll even try to cop a feel."

This time, the laugh is perfect, if quiet. "Just so long as I look presentable when I get back to work."

"I'll try not to tear your suit off in the middle of the street," Bull says with a show of reluctance, like he's granting some huge concession.

"I'll make it up to you later," Dorian says. His smile is positively wicked. "But in the meantime, I'm hoping you can content yourself with lunch."

Bull inhales deeply, breathing in the smells coming from the restaurant in front of them. "If it tastes half as good as it smells, I think I'll be okay." He doesn't add that the food could be complete shit, so long as Dorian keeps smiling at him like that.

The restaurant is moderately busy for lunchtime, but they've got a table in a corner with a little distance between themselves and anyone else, and Bull doesn't mind having to occasionally lean closer to be heard. Dorian is in fine form this afternoon, operating under some unholy combination of the easy intimacy he only shows in private and the charm Bull has seen him turn off and on at parties. The two together are mesmerizing, turning him into a force of nature that's impossible to resist as he asks question after question.

Halfway through an enthusiastic description of an aquarium he once visited in Lisbon, Bull stumbles to a halt as he realizes Dorian has said almost nothing for the last fifteen minutes. Not that he looks bored--he's forgotten to eat, leaving his lunch to get cold as he listens--but still. That's not how this is supposed to work.

Which is when it hits him: he's being charmed, like a potential client or a guest at Aquinea's party. Dorian is working him like a master, using every dropped tidbit as a wedge to open him up further.

Bull's first reaction is defensive anger, both at himself for losing track of the conversation so thoroughly and at Dorian for doing this to him. He swallows that down, but it's interrupted the flow of his story, and he can't remember where he was. Instead of chasing down that lost thread, he says, "Eat. Your food's getting cold."

"What?" Dorian glances down at his plate as if he'd forgotten it was there. "Oh." He picks up his fork but just holds it in his hand as he prompts, "You were telling me about the jellyfish?"

"Yeah, they were really cool," Bull says, working to keep his temper under control as he waves away that conversation. "But Christ, that's enough from me."

Before he can think of a reasonable question to get this conversation back on the right track, Dorian says, "Why? It's not like you normally monopolize the conversation, and I like hearing about the things you've seen."

There should be an obvious answer to Dorian's question, but the only one Bull can think of sounds ridiculous before he even says it: "Because I don't like people digging into my life." It's not as if Dorian is asking for his service record and family tree. These stories aren't ones Bull normally tells, but does that actually make them secrets, or just things that have never come up before? Are the questions actually intrusive, or is Bull just annoyed by how completely Dorian turned this around without Bull realizing it was happening?

Dorian has finally started eating, but the tilt of his head makes it clear he's still waiting on an answer to his question. An answer Bull isn't actually sure he has.

"I'm not used to talking about myself," he says at last, because it's the only thing he can think of that's both honest and not an attempt to divert the conversation. "It's not something most people ask about."

"Perhaps because you make an Olympic-level sport out of distracting them?" Dorian asks. There's a hint of sarcasm in the words, which sits oddly with the uncertainty Bull can read in the set of his shoulders.

Bull realizes he's picking chunks off a slice of bread and makes himself stop. "Old habits."

Dorian smiles wryly. "I wouldn't know anything about that."

For some reason, that's what eases the tension in Bull's spine, relaxes the coiled tightness bracing him for a non-existent fight. "Yeah."

"So," Dorian prompts. "Tell me more about the jellyfish."

He no longer feels like he's in a fight, but now that he's noticed what Dorian is doing, he can't immerse himself in the story again. "I like aquariums," he says with a shrug. "I did some diving once, but it's expensive, and I haven't really had the time since I opened the gym. Still, I don't need any of that equipment at an aquarium, right?"

"You know there's one in town?" Dorian asks. "It's nice, or so I'm told. Lavellan and Cadash actually sponsored the new tank, so I suppose I'll get to see for myself next month." At Bull's puzzled look, he explains, "We have tickets to the grand opening for the new wing, and several of the partners will be there."

"Is that as bad as it sounds?" Bull asks. "Because it sounds like work trying to pretend to be fun."

Dorian smiles. "Maybe, except that I'd rather be doing work."

"There's something a little backwards about being _made_ to go to a party."

"It goes with being a partner," Dorian says. "A certain amount of my time has to be spent on things like this."

Bull is again reminded of his conversation with Max, and he finds himself searching for a way to bring it up. Except then Dorian says, "It's on a Tuesday, actually. You could come with me."

The words are mildly surprising, but not half as surprising as the way Dorian's face shuts down as soon as they're out. That freeze-out is especially startling after the openness of the last hour, and it chases everything else out of Bull's head.

"Hey," Bull says, and when Dorian's gaze re-focuses on him, he makes a circling gesture around his own face. "You're doing that thing."

"What thing?" Dorian asks, blinking.

"That thing where you turn off your face." Bull doesn't know if now is really the time to call him on it, but he can't just keep letting it go.

"Where I what?" Dorian asks.

"I don't know what else to call it," Bull says. "You go on lockdown or something, like you don't want anyone to know you've got actual feelings. Tell me what you're thinking, don't just shut me out."

One of Dorian's eyebrows quirks up, and Bull suddenly realizes exactly how ironic that statement is, coming from him. Before he can try to clarify or apologize, Dorian says, "The aquarium opening? The dress code is black tie."

Ahhh. "I'm guessing my J.C. Penny's clearance rack suit isn't going to cut it?" Bull jokes.

"Not...not really," Dorian says. His smile is tense. "There's nothing wrong with it, it's a perfectly nice suit-"

"Dorian," Bull interrupts gently. "It's okay. I've seen what you wear, remember? I may not be able to afford it, but I can tell the difference."

"I could...buy you a suit," Dorian offers, very tentatively.

Bull's first reaction is to say no, but he hesitates. Not because he wants Dorian to buy him a suit that will probably cost more than Bull's first car, but more because Dorian wants him to go to this party at all. Yet another thing that makes this relationship different from pretty much every other one he's had. He hasn't gotten a lot of invitations to work parties, black-tie or otherwise, and just because he's fine with missing them doesn't mean he's clueless about what it means, Dorian making room in his life for another person. For him.

"Let me think about it," he says at last. "That's a big gift."

"I know," Dorian says. "Does it make it better or worse if I tell you I can definitely afford it?"

"Neither," Bull says with a shrug. He reaches across the table to tweak the knot on Dorian's tie, smiling as he does it. "That house kind of clued me in about roughly how much money you make."

Dorian grimaces. "You and Max. I like my house."

"Hey," Bull says, holding up his hands palm out. "It's a great house, I can see why you love it." Which doesn't change the fact that it practically screams, "I have money to burn!" but there's no need to say that out loud.

Fortunately, Dorian smiles. "Max has been teasing me about it since before I moved in."

"Max is an asshole," Bull says, not without humor. "No offense."

"Max absolutely is an asshole. And if he were here, he'd take that as a compliment."

Somehow, Bull doesn't doubt that for a second, but he really doesn't want to talk about Max. "So I hear that sometimes people go on more than one date," he says instead, tapping Dorian's foot under the table. "We could do this again next week and go to the aquarium, even if we will have to fight the unwashed masses."

"If they're unwashed, we could always push them in the tank," Dorian says. "A very handy solution, I think."

"True," Bull says. "Either they'd get clean or the sharks would eat them."

Dorian makes a face, but he's also laughing. "I wasn't thinking of anything quite that permanent, but I suppose it works." He pulls out his phone and scans something, then nods as he begins to type. Without looking up, he says, "Same time?"

"For date number two? Sure." Bull fights not to smile, watching Dorian put their date in his calendar like it's an appointment with a client.

He must not have managed to hide his amusement completely, because Dorian smiles faintly when he glances up at Bull's face. "If it's not on the calendar," Dorian says, "someone's likely to schedule a meeting on top of it."

"Your assistant?" Bull asks.

"Yes," Dorian admits, putting his phone away. "But 'my assistant' sounds so pretentious."

Coming from a guy wearing a thousand-dollar suit, that's pretty funny, but Bull doesn't say so. Instead, he reaches out to steal one of Dorian's ravioli. They're good even cold, and when they were hot, they were probably amazing.

"This is a nice restaurant," he says, taking another ravioli off Dorian's plate. "We should come here again."

"A third date?" Dorian says in mock astonishment. "Maybe I'm not that kind of guy."

Bull keeps his smirk to a minimum, just enough for Dorian to see it. "I think you're exactly that kind of guy. It's one of the things I like about you."

Some emotion flickers across Dorian's face too fast for Bull to catch, replaced by a smirk as faint as Bull's own. "What? That I'm easy?"

Easy is definitely not the word Bull would use to describe anything about Dorian or this relationship, but there's no way that wouldn't come out wrong, so he keeps it to himself. "What's wrong with easy?" he says instead, teasing.

There it is again, that emotion Bull can't identify before Dorian locks it down. This time, it's replaced by a real smile rather than a smirk, and if it's not the blinding smile that makes Bull dizzy, it's still pretty nice. "Easy is good," Dorian says.

Bull smiles back--he'd have to be stupid not to--and lets Dorian draw him out into another story. It's weird to talk about himself like this, to knowingly hand over control of the conversation to someone else, but telling himself he's doing it because it makes Dorian happy soothes most of his anxiety.

And all right, maybe some parts of this relationship are surprisingly easy, so easy they get lost in everything else if Bull doesn't pay attention. Talking to Dorian isn't exactly a hardship, and while he's turned the charm back on, Bull can tell his interest isn't faked. When lunch is over, it's also really easy to walk down the street, Dorian's hand in his, taking about three times as long to get from the restaurant to his car as it took to go the opposite direction.

Bull blames the traffic lights. Sometimes they're just so badly timed, it takes forever to get anywhere.

Still, there's only so slow he can walk, and eventually they're standing by his car, Dorian starting to pull his hand from Bull's. Before he can get away, Bull tightens his grip and tugs him forward for a goodbye kiss. Given that they're in the middle of a public sidewalk, he keeps it low-key, only touching Dorian's lips with the very tip of his tongue, even if the kiss does last longer than is probably appropriate.

Since his hand sliding up Dorian's ribs under his suit jacket is even less appropriate--not to mention his thumb rubbing deliberately over one nipple ring--Bull figures he's allowed to steal a longer-than-strictly-proper kiss to go with.

Dorian leans into his hand for a second, then steps away, face a little flushed. "We are in public, you know."

"I know," Bull says, not even a little bit sorry. If Dorian looked upset, that would be one thing, but there's a gleam in his eyes that definitely isn't embarrassment. "But you promised I could cop a feel."

"I don't remember promising any such thing," Dorian says. His lips curl in a lazy smile that makes Bull want to back him up against the car and kiss him again, more thoroughly this time. "Unless you were thinking about tonight, that is."

"I sure am now," Bull says, reaching for him slowly enough that Dorian can dodge if he wants.

Which apparently he does, because he sidesteps Bull's hand and puts a few extra feet between them. "Tonight," he says, and the word is full of promise.

###

The drive back to work is strange, Dorian's attention less on the road and more on cataloguing his own emotions. Triumph is a significant part of it, and relief, but much of it is anger, anger that grows the more he thinks about it. Anger at Rilienus, for twisting him into knots he wasn't even aware of until they pulled him up short, and anger at himself for not seeing it sooner. Anger at both of them, for the way Bull's reaction to the parking surprised him. It shouldn't have, after all: it was the reaction of a reasonable adult, someone capable of anticipating a problem and planning accordingly. It shouldn't have been a surprise.

His jaw is tight by the time he gets back to the office, anger starting to turn into rage, and he must be more upset than he thought, because his assistant takes one look at his face and blinks. "Lunch didn't work out?" Minaeve asks.

Dorian gets his face under control and pastes on a smile for her. "Lunch was fine. Some things came up after."

"Anything you need me to take care of?" she asks.

Since her job description can't really be stretched to include felonies, no matter how generously they interpret "other duties as assigned," Dorian shakes his head. "If you can keep the phones quiet, that's all I need."

"Sure thing," she says. "Red alert?"

Which would be their short-hand for "if the building isn't on fire, don't let anyone except another partner interrupt me." For the first time, it occurs to Dorian that the safeword Bull gave him is almost the same as what he uses with Minaeve, and the realization almost makes him laugh out loud. "Maybe not quite there," he says, no longer fighting to maintain the smile. "But close."

"Got it," she says, waving him toward his office. "Now go make another few million dollars so I can have my Christmas bonus."

He tips her a joking salute and retreats to the safety of his office, closing the door behind himself.

The anger comes back as soon as he's alone, though it's muted now, easier to keep under control and tempered by a certain amount of resignation. Rilienus...there isn't anything he can do about Rilienus now, except stop letting him fuck up other relationships. The man has been living rent free in his head for too fucking long, and it's long past time Dorian evicted him.

Now if only doing it were as easy as thinking it.

His phone buzzes in his breast pocket, and he pulls it out to find a text from Bull: _Had a good time. See you tonight @ 2000?_

It takes him a second to translate the number into a time instead of a year. Somewhere between annoyed and amused, Dorian texts back, _See you at 8pm._

Bull's answer comes back almost immediately. _Still thinking about what I said yesterday morning?_

He wasn't, but he certainly is now, and it's a welcome distraction from thoughts of Rilienus. _I might be,_ he texts back.

 _Good,_ Bull replies, and Dorian's mouth twitches in a faint smile as he puts his phone away.

For the most part, he keeps his mind focused in the right direction for the rest of the afternoon. He's been ignoring Rilienus for over a year now, after all, and practice makes perfect. The real distraction is Bull, even though he doesn't text again, because Dorian keeps hearing his voice, purring out obscenities and telling him not to jerk off. As if two days without an orgasm is actually difficult. Dorian isn't seventeen anymore, and he's gone much longer than two days without jerking off. Bull's instructions really shouldn't keep sneaking into his head at odd moments, when he's trying to work.

What is it about being told "no" that's so damn distracting?

Whatever it is, it continues to distract him throughout the day. Not enough to be annoying, but whenever he finishes a task and looks around for the next, there's a second or two where his thoughts stray in that direction.

It makes for a very interesting afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone not on Tumblr...no, I did not leave y'all hanging for a month and a half, and then come back with a measly 3600 words. :) The next chapter (which is 11,000 words of smut) is done, and I'm working on revisions. There's a very slim chance it will be ready today, but otherwise, tomorrow night at the latest.


	24. A Better Fate Than Wisdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since feeling is first  
> who pays any attention  
> to the syntax of things  
> will never wholly kiss you;
> 
> wholly to be a fool  
> while Spring is in the world
> 
> my blood approves,  
> and kisses are a better fate  
> than wisdom
> 
> e. e. cummings  
> ******************************************************  
> A thousand million thank yous to [meelah](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Meelah/pseuds/Meelah) for helping me disassemble this chapter and put it back together better, faster, stronger (not to mention sexier). I'm pretty sure she didn't expect to spend her Wednesday doing the pornographic ophthalmology test ("A...or B? B...or C?"), but this chapter is a hundred times better for it. Also 1500 words longer, but I don't think anyone's going to complain. :)

Dorian is almost manic by the time he leaves work, and half an hour at home by himself doesn't help at all. If anything, it's worse without a distraction, and cleaning up non-existent messes in various rooms--straightening pillows that don't need straightening, opening and closing the dishwasher as if dishes in need of putting away will magically appear, and generally acting as if Orana wasn't here less than twelve hours ago--doesn't do anything but wind him tighter. It's not unpleasant, though: he's high on the success of the date, and getting more turned on by the minute.

He does manage not to jump Bull the second he arrives, and he also manages a kiss that doesn't involve either of them getting slammed against a convenient wall. Hopefully that part will come later. And possibly involve the contents of the overnight bag in Bull's hand, a bag which is intriguingly bulky.

"How was your day?" Dorian asks, and it's such a cliché, he can't help but smile.

"Not bad," Bull says, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. "I had lunch with a cute guy, and I'm hoping he might put out later."

Dorian raises one eyebrow in his most skeptical look. "Optimistic, aren't you."

"Nah," Bull drawls, kissing his cheek this time. "I think he likes me."

"You are rather likeable," Dorian agrees, turning to catch Bull's mouth with his own. "But still. Sex on the first date? Scandalous."

They're pressed hip-to-hip now, Dorian up on his toes, heart beating too fast, one of Bull's arms around his waist to pull him closer. Bull is smiling into the kiss, and Dorian feels like he's flying, like he's already tipping over into sub-space, cut loose from the fear and the endless overthinking.

"I like scandalous," Bull murmurs, nipping at Dorian's bottom lip. His arm squeezes tighter for a second, then relaxes as he adds, "But I think you might like scandalous better after I've had a shower."

"I could wash your back," Dorian offers with a smirk.

"Maybe next time," Bull says, stepping back to put a little distance between them. He can't step back very far, not with the door only a few feet behind him, and Dorian thinks again about wall-slamming. He's not strong enough to actually move Bull physically, but if he went to his knees, put his mouth over the bulge he can see in Bull's jeans...

"Okay," Bull says. When Dorian looks up, he's laughing, his eye dark. "Something else for next time."

"What?"

"Next time, if you want, I'll fuck you up against the door."

Dorian's heartbeat is thudding in his ears, and he has to swallow before he can say, "Or next time, I can suck you off right here."

"Or that," Bull agrees. He touches Dorian's bottom lip, lingering over the place where he nipped it. "Though I kind of like the idea of you meeting me at the door, all slick and ready to be fucked."

"Naked, I presume?" Dorian asks, his voice only shaking a little. His jeans are too tight, his dick at a painful angle as it tries to harden more, but he doesn't reach down to do anything about it.

"Oh, I don't know," Bull says, his finger sliding a little ways into Dorian's mouth, just far enough to touch the tip of his tongue. "If you were still wearing clothes, I'd get to rip them off you."

Dorian wants to say, "You're hard on my wardrobe, aren't you?" but he also doesn't want to move away from Bull's finger, tracing the edges of his front teeth and the inside of his lip.

While he's still deciding, Bull's hand drops away. "But that's for next time."

It takes Dorian several seconds to get his mouth working. "What's wrong with this time?"

Bull grins at him, hefting his overnight bag. "Nothing at all, but I think we had other plans for tonight."

Since those plans also involve him sucking Bull's dick, Dorian sighs dramatically but doesn't protest. "I'm assuming said other plans will begin post-shower?"

"You'd assume right," Bull says. "But pre-shower, I've got a couple things I need to do first."

"Such as...?"

"You'll see." The corner of his eye crinkles. "Have you eaten? Dinner," he adds, when Dorian smirks.

"I had a granola bar before I left work," Dorian says. "I'll be fine."

Bull tsks at him. "While I'm doing my pre-shower stuff, you can eat something. I already know all about you and breakfast, you can't skip dinner, too."

About to point out that he skips dinner most nights, Dorian realizes that might not actually help his case. "Is a sandwich acceptable?" he asks. His tone is sarcastic, but he smiles.

"It'll work," Bull allows. "But eat it slow. It's gonna take me a little while to do what I need to do, so it's not like you're missing anything."

"How slow is slow?"

"Fifteen minutes," Bull says.

Dorian makes a point of looking at his watch. "Starting now."

"Starting now," Bull agrees, sliding past Dorian to head for the stairs.

The kitchen is far enough away from the bedroom that Dorian can't hear anything, and his curiosity is a lot stronger than his hunger, but he focuses on making himself a sandwich. As he gets a plate out of the cupboard, he licks his lips, enjoying the ghost-touch of Bull's finger inside his mouth. And how has making a sandwich become foreplay? Because that's what this feels like, the low burn under his skin that leaves him hypersensitive, even though all he's doing is putting peanut butter on bread and then eating it in slow, deliberate bites.

At the end of fifteen minutes, he washes his hands and rinses out his mouth, then climbs the stairs to the bedroom as carefully as he made the sandwich. Not hurrying, but not dawdling either.

Bull is standing with his hands on his hips, surveying the room with a satisfied smile. It takes Dorian a moment to figure out what he did--other than move the pillows to a stack on the floor--but then his eye picks out the ropes that Bull ran under the bed, one looped end at each corner of the mattress.

"I could have just met you at your house," Dorian teases, even as his fingers prickle with anticipation. "Saved some time."

"I'm not worried about saving time," Bull says. He turns so Dorian can see his face, and the prickling intensifies.

"This is a turn on for you?" Dorian asks.

"Thinking about all the things I'm going to do to you once I've got this set up?" The words are barely more than a rumble. "Yeah, that's hot."

"Well, it's set up and I'm here." He spreads his hands as if presenting himself.

"But I still haven't showered," Bull says, grinning. Just a little bit predatory, and Dorian is really sure he doesn't care about the shower, unless...

"So you _do_ want me to wash your back?"

"Nah, there's something else I want you to do. Come over here."

It's a good thing the room is clean, because Dorian doesn't pay any attention to where he's putting his feet as he crosses to the bed. Just before he's close enough to try for another kiss, Bull holds up a hand, and Dorian stops. The smile he gets almost makes up for the fact that he's fully dressed and still standing, rather than naked and on his knees.

Or on the bed. On the bed would be fine, too.

His attention drawn in that direction, Dorian glances at the bed, then looks again. There's a lump in the blankets that he'd first thought was just a place where they'd been shoved aside while Bull worked, but now that he's here, it's obvious there's something underneath.

"While I'm in the shower," Bull says, then pauses until Dorian looks at him. "While I'm in the shower, I want you to look through what's under there." A brief wave of his hand indicates the mysterious lump under the blankets.

"A present for me?" Dorian asks archly.

"More like for both of us." His eye is dark again, and his expression is making Dorian light-headed. "Look through it, decide what you want to play with tonight and put everything else back in my bag."

"I can do that," Dorian says. Then he grins. "Am I allowed to test any of it out?"

"No," Bull says. It's not harsh, but it's also clearly not negotiable. "And don't spend too much time thinking about it. When I get done in the shower, I expect to find you naked. Don't touch your dick, and don't play with anything. Got it?"

"Got it." His voice is only a little hoarse.

"Good," Bull says, in the tone that seems to have a direct line to Dorian's cock. "I won't be long."

Dorian waits until he's in the bathroom to grab the corner of the sheet, rubbing the cotton between his fingers with a combination of excitement and wariness before he turns back sheets and blankets together. None of the items underneath are particularly shocking, though it does make him smile to see that they're laid out in two precise rows.

The top row has a blindfold, a gag, a cock ring, and four pairs of cuffs. Dorian's eyes skip over the first two and settle on the cock ring, which is at least something he's familiar with. This one is simple, just black nitrile, and Dorian picks it up to stretch it idly between thumb and forefinger while he looks at the cuffs. Bull may have used a pair very like these on that first night, but Dorian still feels a mix of excitement and apprehension as he looks at the four pairs in front of him now.

Two pairs of the cuffs are leather, while the other two are made of some black material that Dorian decides is neoprene. Setting the cock ring on the bedside table, he picks one of those pairs up, turning the cuffs over in his hands to inspect the velcro straps and the metal clips currently linking them together. Velcro seems neither sexy nor sturdy, but the straps do go all the way around, so maybe they're stronger than they look. A few experiments prove that he's not going to force them open if they're around his wrists.

Those experiments also reveal an important difference between the two sets of cuffs. He doesn't have to pull very hard against the leather ones before the rough edges leave red marks on his skin. As pleasant as that feels, going to work in the morning with friction burns around his wrists would be significantly less pleasant. And the thought of being able to pull as hard as he wants without fear of awkward explanations tomorrow has its own appeal.

After a moment's hesitation, he keeps one pair of the neoprene cuffs and the larger pair of leather ones before turning back to the other items on the bed: four dildos lined up in a row, each larger than the one before until the largest is enough to make him squirm, and not pleasantly.

He ignores that one--it’s definitely going back in the bag--and lets his fingers move on to the next. It isn't exactly small, but he picks it up anyway, heat creeping across his face as he thinks about what it would feel like to be fucked with it. It's big, bigger than Bull's cock and only small in comparison to the larger one beside it. Definitely bigger than anything he's ever played with before.

The glass is heavy and cold in his palm, and all he can think of for a minute is what it would feel like inside him. There's almost no flare to the head, and the translucent shaft is ridged the whole way down to the base. Shallow ridges, nothing that would slow it down if someone was fucking him with it, but enough that he would feel every inch of it in his ass.

Or his mouth.

Embarrassed by that unexpected thought, he sets it down hurriedly and picks up the remaining two dildos, weighing them in his hands and trying to convince himself that either one would be fine, until the sheer ridiculousness of it hits him. It makes him laugh, the thought of how he must look right now: like some perverted statue of justice, considering the relative merits of a case.

Still laughing, he puts both of the dildos he's holding back in Bull's bag, along with the largest one. The remaining one he sets carefully on the nightstand, fingers circling the base to check to size one last time. There's still a part of him that's embarrassed by how much he wants this one, how much the size of it turns him on, but amusement--and anticipation--make it easy to ignore.

It's not nearly so difficult to sort through the top row. He hesitates briefly over the gag and blindfold before putting them in the bag along with the other three dildos, keeping only the cuffs and the cock ring. Then he strips down, one ear toward the sound of Bull in the shower as he folds his clothes and puts them away.

The water shuts off as he's closing the dresser drawer, and that sends another shiver through him, though there's nothing inherently sexy about a shower door opening. It's like making the sandwich, earlier: something entirely mundane, turned into foreplay, and Dorian is a little envious of Bull's ability to do that.

His skin is prickling again, too warm even though the room is on the cool side, and he finds himself picking up the cock ring again without thinking about it, playing with it as he listens to Bull moving around in the bathroom. Given Bull's order not to try anything out, Dorian's reasonably sure he's not supposed to put it on yet, but just handling it is making him harder. Touching himself, it turns out, isn't really necessary.

He's barely set the cock ring back down on the nightstand when the bathroom door opens, and Bull's there, grinning at him and holding the ends of a towel that's looped around the back of his neck. "Find something you like?" Bull asks.

Dorian looks him up and down deliberately. "I think so." Then he makes a show of surprise, looking down at the toys on the nightstand. "Oh, did you mean these?"

Bull chuckles. "Hey, if you're happy, I'm happy."

"I think I can make do," Dorian says, looking back at him. Because looking at Bull, naked and hard and still slightly damp from the shower, is definitely something he wants to do as often as possible.

"I'm hoping for a little better than 'making do,'" Bull says. He's still smiling, his good eye narrowed, even the damaged skin on the other side crinkling up.

For a second, Dorian is distracted by the eyepatch, and he almost says something, almost asks Bull to take it off. That feels too intimate, though, almost intrusive: if Bull wanted the scar to be visible, he would have left the eyepatch off when he got out of the shower. That he put it back on is statement enough.

Dorian looks away, scrambling for something to say before the words fall out of his mouth despite himself, and his gaze falls on the cuffs. Looping a finger through one of them, he holds them up and smirks at Bull. "And what would you have done if I'd put these back in the bag? I thought this was the whole plan for tonight."

"It was the plan," Bull says, face suddenly serious. "But plans can change."

"After you put all that work in?" Dorian asked, gesturing at the bed to indicate the ropes. "Seems a pity to waste the effort."

Bull considers him for a second, then crosses the room to curl a hand around the back of Dorian's neck, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "You're always allowed to change your mind, you know. Just because something sounded like a good idea yesterday doesn't mean you have to want it today."

This position doesn't let him see Bull's face, but Dorian supposes it doesn't matter. It wouldn't change his answer. "I want it. I've been thinking about it for two days, and trust me, I want it." A thought occurs to him. "Assuming you do."

"Definitely," Bull says, lips moving up to Dorian's hairline. "I just need to be sure you know that you can say no whenever you want."

Dorian takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "I know."

"I hope so," Bull says. "I don't want you to ever feel like you _have_ to tell me yes."

There have been plenty of times in Dorian's life where he wished for a chance to re-make a decision, but right now, the moment he most wants to change is the one where he let Bull tie him up without asking any questions. That one moment of stupidity is going to hang between them for a while, he knows.

Maybe this wasn't the conversation he wanted to have right now--certainly his dick is less than thrilled about the serious turn--but he's not going to pass up the chance to start making things right.

Bull's jaw is stubbled and rough under his fingers. "I know that I can say no," Dorian murmurs. "But you aren't sure I'll actually say it. That's the real issue, isn't it?"

"Little bit," Bull agrees, hand squeezing the back of Dorian's neck.

An apology is on the tip of Dorian's tongue, and he almost swallows it, but at the last second, he changes it around and says, "I know it was stupid. And I know it isn't the kind of mistake I can apologize for. And I wish there was a way I could prove it to you now, that I won't do anything like that again."

Bull starts to say something, but he stops when Dorian shakes his head.

"I know I can't. I know it takes time. But..." He stops and tries to think how to say it. "But will you trust me enough to give me the chance to screw it up again? Because I won't."

Bull huffs out a laugh, a warm rush of air against Dorian's forehead. "Okay," he says after a moment. "I can do that."

"Thank you," Dorian says quietly. His cock is no longer hard, but it doesn't matter. That's an easy problem to fix, unlike the one he made with that thoughtless, _"Do whatever you want, and I'll say stop if I don't like it."_

The hand on the back of his neck squeezes again as Bull's lips work their way downward in a trail of kisses: one on his forehead, another between his eyebrows, then the tip of his nose, and finally his mouth. "You're welcome," Bull says, smiling.

Dorian hesitates, wanting to chase his mouth but also not sure if now is the right time. Then Bull kisses him again, tongue flicking across his lips, and Dorian presses closer, following when Bull steps back toward the bed, deepening the kiss as much as Bull will allow.

Which isn't very, it turns out: Bull is already pulling away, his hand on the back of Dorian's neck to keep a little distance between them. "Safeword?"

"Red light," Dorian says immediately. It's a good thing that's almost an automatic response at this point, because Bull's closeness is damn distracting.

A few inches from Dorian's nose, a drop of water runs down Bull's neck and catches in the hollow of his throat. Without thinking, Dorian leans forward and licks it away, tasting a faint hint of salt as he follows its path back up.

Bull's hand tightens on the back of his neck, pulling him gently away again. "That's not really what I want you to lick," he murmurs.

"Oh?" Dorian asks. "Then what should I be licking?"

For answer, Bull pushes down with his hand, encouraging Dorian to go to his knees. Not that he needs much encouragement, not when it means he can bury his face in the crease of Bull's hip where the skin is warm and damp. Hair tickles his cheek, and he turns to kiss the base of Bull's cock. It's not fully hard yet, but Dorian's confident that won't be a problem for long.

On the back of his neck, Bull's hand has relaxed, no longer controlling his movements, and Dorian is tempted to tell him he can be more forceful. He keeps the words to himself, though: between the conversation they just had and his own embarrassment over what he wants, he's reasonably sure that one more serious conversation will derail them entirely for tonight.

So he sets that aside for another time and focuses on tonight, planting one hand on Bull's stomach to push him back until he sits on the edge of the bed.

"Hey," Bull says in mock-protest even as he spreads his knees wide to give Dorian space to move. "Who's in charge here?"

Dorian kisses his cock right under the head, looking up to catch his gaze. "I don't know," he says, as innocent as Bull is upset. Which would be not very. "You tell me."

Bull chuckles. "If I have to tell you, then I'm doing it wrong."

"Tell me anyway," Dorian whispers, and Bull's eye goes dark.

"I'm in charge." His fingers on Dorian's chin are strong, gripping just on the pleasant side of painful. "And I want to see you suck my dick." The first two fingers on his other hand brush against Dorian's lips for a second before sliding between them, and Dorian doesn't wait to be told what to do, just sucks hard on them without looking away from Bull's face.

"God, I love watching you do that." Bull draws his hand back, but only enough to add a third finger, thrusting them all the way into Dorian's mouth. "I love that you enjoy it, that it turns you on and that I can see how much it turns you on. The other night, I thought you were going to come just like that, with your mouth around my dick, and you've got no idea how hot that was."

Dorian has to fight for his next breath, dizzy from the words as much as from Bull's fingers still thrusting lazily between his lips.

"Seeing as I'm in charge," Bull says, a faint smile turning up one corner of his mouth, "and seeing as you sucking cock is my favorite fantasy these days," his fingers thrust one last time and then withdraw, his grip on Dorian's chin preventing him from chasing them, "you've got fifteen seconds to find a condom and get back here."

It's hardly a challenge when the box is three feet away in the drawer of the nightstand, but Dorian doesn't waste any time. He also doesn't bother pointing out that, while Bull's dick is certainly well on its way to hard, it isn't all the way there.

When he turns around from getting the condom, he smiles, because Bull is stroking himself with a firm, almost business-like touch. Apparently Dorian wasn't the only one considering the logistical difficulties of putting a condom on a not-quite-hard dick.

"I could do that for you," Dorian says, half teasing.

"No, you couldn't," Bull says, hand continuing to move. "Because that's not what I told you to do."

Reminded, Dorian closes the drawer and crawls back to kneel at Bull's feet. It's not easy to look past Bull's cock and up to his face, but he does manage it, only a little distracted by the hand moving at the edge of his vision.

"Good," Bull says, holding out his free hand for the condom.

Dorian passes it to him, surprised when Bull just sets it on the bed unopened. "Shouldn't I be doing something with that?"

"Nope," Bull says. "Because you're going to be busy telling me what you want me to do to you."

Lust and embarrassment make Dorian flush. "I thought you were in charge," he says, stalling for time.

"I am," Bull says, and the absolute confidence in his voice is far hotter than it should be. He shrugs the towel off his shoulders, catching it with the hand not busy stroking himself. "And since I'm in charge, you're going to do what I say. Tell me what you want."

There are so many answers, they tangle with the embarrassment and leave Dorian speechless. Bull's expectant look doesn't change, but after a while, he says, "Close your eyes."

The darkness is a relief, even knowing Bull is still watching him, and it makes him feel safe enough to say, "I want what you promised me."

"What did I promise?" Bull asks.

Dorian's mouth is dry, and he almost stumbles over the words. "I want you to tie me up, and fuck yourself on my dick, and I want to feel you come while I'm inside you."

By the sound of it, Bull's hand has picked up speed, stroking faster over his cock, and Dorian leans forward without thinking. "Stay put," Bull says, firm despite the laugh in his voice. "And keep talking. Tell me about the dildo."

Dorian's nose wrinkles at the word, but he's too turned on to care much. "I want you to fuck me with it." He thinks too hard about that for a second, then just shakes his head once, briefly. "However you make that work, if I'm fucking you."

"Let me worry about that," Bull says. "You just think about what it's going to feel like, me fucking you with something that big. You'll feel it tomorrow, won't you?"

"Yes," Dorian breathes out, curling his fingers against his thighs.

"You'll be thinking about me every time you sit down. Every time you move, you'll remember, won't you?"

"God, yes." It might as well be a prayer.

"Good," Bull says.

Dorian can't hear his hand moving anymore, but the condom wrapper crinkles before he has a chance to think about what that means. He licks his lips, only a little deliberately, and smiles at Bull's pleased chuckle.

"Open your eyes if you want," Bull says. "Or keep them closed. But come here."

It's not a difficult choice: Dorian opens his eyes immediately, wanting to see Bull's face, needing to see the way it changes as he takes Bull's cock in his mouth.

"Oh yeah." Bull leans back, propping himself on his elbows without looking away. "Fuck, you're beautiful."

There's a smart-assed answer Dorian could make, but since he doesn't particularly want to stop what he's doing, he ignores it. Much better to suck on the head of Bull's cock, to tease him with lips and tongue and small movements until he growls, "That's not what you were doing to my fingers."

Dorian smiles and goes as far down as he can, all at once and without warning. Bull makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a groan, but his hips don't move even though the muscles in his thighs flex against Dorian's shoulders. "Yeah," Bull says, fingers curling into fists. "Just like that."

It's a challenge, then, to see what noises he can get Bull to make, and whether those noises contain actual words. Listening to Bull murmuring praise and encouragement is hot, but his small, involuntary moans and the sound of his breath catching are hotter still. If Dorian's hands weren't busy, one stroking Bull's cock and the other teasing his balls, those noises would be enough on their own to make him want to touch himself.

His hands _are_ busy, though, and he has no interest in changing what he's doing, not when he can see Bull's fingers flexing against the sheets. He still wants those fingers in his hair, holding him in place while Bull fucks his mouth, but he's no more prepared to ask for it now than he was before. Instead, he concentrates on taking Bull's cock all the way to the base without gagging, doing to himself what he wants from Bull.

He swallows around the head of Bull's cock, and Bull's harsh gasp would make him smile if his lips weren't stretched too wide already. Then suddenly, Bull grabs him by the hair to pull him back, and Dorian can't stop a gasp of his own.

"What's your safeword?" Bull says again, leaning forward. His other hand has a tight grip on Dorian's wrist, stopping his attempts to continue stroking.

"Red light," Dorian says, "but I don't-"

He doesn't make it any further. In one impossibly smooth movement, Bull yanks Dorian’s wrist high into the air to bring him up and off his heels so that Bull can plant his shoulder in Dorian's stomach and let his momentum carry him up to his feet with Dorian slung over his shoulder.

Dorian shouts in surprise and instinctive protest, a sound that's cut off when Bull drops him onto the mattress without warning, knocking him momentarily breathless. Adrenaline rushes through him, and something that's not exactly fear. The thought of being afraid of Bull is ridiculous, and yet, right now, Bull looks dangerous. He towers over the bed, and Dorian's body is still struggling to re-orient itself, and it runs through him on a shiver, that bone-deep realization of exactly how strong Bull is.

Bull doesn't give him any time to think about it, or to rationalize it away. The mattress dips under his weight as he crawls across it, and Dorian feels like his heart is trying to choke him. When Bull grabs his face, squeezing his cheeks between fingers and thumb, Dorian barely catches himself before he tries to jerk away.

The kiss Bull gives him is nothing like that grip: it's as soft as his fingers are rough, his tongue tracing the line of Dorian's lips so gently it almost tickles. The combination is electrifying, and Dorian's mouth opens on a groan.

That's all the invitation Bull needs to deepen the kiss, pressing harder until Dorian's lips sting. It's definitely not fear making his hands tingle now, even when Bull bites his lower lip hard enough to hurt. The pain just makes him want the pleasure more, makes him grab for the back of Bull's neck to pull him in tighter.

Except Bull is leaning away, his hand on Dorian's face holding him back. "Stay put," he growls, and Dorian really shouldn't find it so hot, being ordered around like that.

He considers disobeying to force Bull to make him do as he was told, but even as he thinks it, he shies away from the idea. More than another show of strength, he wants Bull to call him good in that approving tone, and that's one thing he won't get if he deliberately disobeys. The thought makes him flush with embarrassment, but he ignores it.

That gets easier when Bull grabs the neoprene cuffs off the nightstand without taking his eyes off Dorian. The ripping sound of the velcro straps opening is, it turns out, much sexier than Dorian would have thought.

"Hands above your head," Bull says, and Dorian obeys.

Bull stretches out over him, his body pressing Dorian's into the mattress as he wraps the cuffs around Dorian's wrists and locks them together. He ditched the condom somewhere along the way, and his dick rubs against Dorian's stomach, sliding through the hair that trails from chest to groin. Dorian arches his back, trying to increase the pressure, but Bull doesn't allow it. With one hand, he presses down on the links connecting the cuffs while the other hand grabs Dorian's chin. "I want you to stay like this," Bull says.

After a second, he relaxes his grip, fingers stroking across Dorian's jaw. "I'm not going to make it easy on you, so you can choose. I can leave your hands like they are now, just cuffed together, or I can tie them down and you can pull all you want." His fingers move from Dorian's jaw to his lips, stopping his answer. "So the question is, do you want me to tie your hands down? You can say yes, you can say no, or you can say the safeword. Nothing else."

He lifts his hand barely enough for Dorian to speak, the pads of his fingers still brushing Dorian's lips. Dorian wants to lick them--lips and fingers both--so much that he forgets there was even a question until Bull says, "Dorian?" in a voice that makes the question into an order.

Mentally, Dorian scrambles backward, trying to figure out the right answer. He knows what he wants, but he can't remember how Bull phrased the question, and he starts to panic, afraid Bull will take his silence as disobedience.

"Do you want me to tie your hands down?" Bull says. His tone is patient, as if this isn't the third time he's asked for an answer, and his thumb strokes lightly along the underside of Dorian's chin. "It's okay if you need to think about it, I'm not going anywhere."

Dorian sucks in a deep breath, far more air than he needs for one short word, using the pause to soothe the fear, so that when he says "yes!" there's no hesitation behind it.

He wonders if Bull will ask him again, or ask him if he's sure, but Bull only nods and reaches for the ropes. It doesn't take him long to attach the cuffs to the loops at the end, stretching Dorian's arms almost painfully far toward the corners of the bed, so far Dorian has to fight just a little harder for every breath. When that's done, Bull takes a handful of Dorian's hair and pins his head in place to kiss him again, as hard as before. Dorian strains against the grip on his hair just to feel the burn in his scalp, gasping for breath as Bull's tongue thrusts against his.

That hand in his hair keeps him from even trying to follow when Bull leans back, smiling and a little breathless. "Pull if you want," Bull says, touching one of the cuffs to make it clear what he means. "Make all the noise you want. But don't say anything unless you need the safeword."

He doesn't wait for an answer, just grabs the other pair of cuffs and turns toward Dorian's feet. His hands are big enough to circle Dorian's ankle completely, and his fingers digging in are another sharp reminder of his strength, of how much damage he could do without even breaking a sweat. With his hands cuffed, Dorian has almost no chance of protecting himself if Bull tries to hurt him, but that doesn't matter anymore. Rather than feeling threatened, he feels protected. All that strength is there to keep him safe, not to hurt him.

He's restless, so many emotions and sensations running through him that he wants to move, but he fights off the urge, determined to do exactly what Bull told him. As if he's proving himself worthy of that protection, by following Bull's orders.

The larger cuffs fit snugly around his ankles, the leather just a little rough against his skin as Bull clips the cuffs together and runs a finger around the inside of each. He makes a pleased noise and tugs sharply against them, the edges digging in to the tops of Dorian's feet. "Good," he murmurs, tugging harder. "Good."

Dorian couldn't agree more.

Bull gives the cuffs one last tug, then turns back around and comes up on his knees, raising Dorian's legs so that both of them rest on one of Bull's shoulders. His cock rubs against the backs of Dorian's thighs, and Dorian tugs hard at the cuffs on his wrists, wanting to tilt his ass higher in hopes Bull might take the hint. Bull's arm around his legs makes that almost impossible, and then Bull's hand is squeezing his cock, and Dorian's whole body squeezes with it.

He gets barely enough time to really sink into the feeling before Bull's hand disappears again, and Dorian's eyes snap open, ready to glare even if he can't speak. Except Bull is reaching for the nightstand and the lube.

And the dildo.

Dorian closes his eyes again, heat flashing through him. God he wants it, and he's too far gone now to be embarrassed by how much. It's all he can do not to beg for it, and that doesn't get any easier when Bull lays the head of the dildo against his bottom lip.

"Open your mouth," Bull says, and Dorian does, as eager as if it were Bull's cock.

It slides slowly between his lips and across his tongue, the ridges on the shaft clicking lightly against his teeth as Bull eases it all the way to the back of his throat.

"You look so good, taking it like that," Bull says. His hand on Dorian's leg slides down and then back up. "When it's my dick in your mouth, all I can think about is how it feels, and fuck does it feel good. But sometimes I want to watch you like this, watch you suck a dick and be able to just enjoy how good you are."

He pulls the dildo back as slowly as he pushed it in, until the tip is against Dorian's lips, and then he pushes it back in just as gently. "Show me how good you are," Bull says, fucking Dorian's mouth with it in careful strokes. "Show me what you'd do if this was me."

Dorian raises his head up to meet it, careful of his teeth for an entirely different reason than usual, and sucks as best he can, running his tongue around the head. As slow as Bull's hand moves, it's easy to time his own movements so he can take most of it on each stroke, letting his tongue press against the underside as if it really were Bull's cock.

The glass is warm by the time Bull takes it away and lays it on the bed to rest against Dorian's side. His thumb brushes against Dorian's lips. "You don't have any idea how much I think about your mouth, do you?"

_Tell me,_ Dorian thinks, but doesn't say.

To his mild disappointment, Bull doesn't go on. Instead, the arm around Dorian's legs shifts, twisting his hips a little to turn his ass toward Bull's other hand as the cap on the lube snaps open. Disappointment is no longer a problem. He can't see what's happening, and while he knows what's _going_ to happen, he doesn't know exactly when. Part of him wants it now, right this second, no more waiting, and part of him revels in the anticipation, in all the possibilities still open to them.

Bull's fingers are slick and a little cool as they trace the crack of his ass, warming as they press into him. A groan almost slips out before he swallows it, then Bull turns his hand and Dorian can't stop all of it, a whimper escaping through his clenched teeth.

"Yeah," Bull murmurs. "Let me hear you. Show me you want it, because I'm not going to fuck you with something this big if you're not sure you want it."

As if Dorian's whole body isn't too hot right now, his skin too tight, his thoughts focused only on Bull's cock against the backs of his legs and Bull's fingers in his ass and the chill of glass against his hip. Bull fucks him hard, fingers rubbing over exactly the right spot on every stroke, and the only thing that keeps Dorian from rocking back to meet those thrusts is Bull's arm, still pinning his legs to Bull's chest.

He stops trying to contain the noises that build in his throat, wordless groans and gasps and small whines that would be embarrassing if he cared right now. Because he doesn't care right now, not when he can feel Bull's rapid breaths against his leg, and can feel the way those breaths stutter in sympathy with every one of his groans.

The head of the dildo is cold when Bull touches it to his ass. Not fucking him with it, not yet, just letting him feel it and anticipate the burn and the stretch he knows is next. Dorian can't move far, but he uses what little range he has to push back, to beg wordlessly for more, and Bull obliges him, letting the first inch slide into him.

It's at the limit of what he can take, impossibly hard and unyielding, and Dorian almost regrets his earlier decision. His hands clench into fists and he yanks against the restraints, trying to turn away but unable to move far enough in either direction.

"Look at me," Bull says, and Dorian opens eyes he doesn't remember closing. Bull has stopped moving, though he hasn't let go of Dorian's legs, and his gaze is intent. "You can change your mind," he says quietly. "This still what you want?"

Even just a few seconds ago, Dorian might have hesitated, but his body is already adapting, the glass warming, and now rather than trying to turn away, he's fighting the rope for enough give to fuck himself harder. "Yes," he gasps out. "Yes!"

Bull chuckles almost soundlessly, the hand on Dorian's legs stroking his thigh. "Okay," he says. He kisses the outside of Dorian's ankle, his lips warm and gentle, and presses the dildo slowly in.

Very slowly. So slowly Dorian thinks he could count every ridge and bump along the shaft, if only he could remember how to count. He certainly feels each one, and the dips between them: the ridges stretching him a tiny bit wider before the pressure eases for half a breath, and then the next ridge is there, pushing into him almost to the point of pain.

By the time Bull stops, Dorian's mouth is dry from gasping for air. He's jerking against the ropes and twisting his feet as if he's going to be able to kick the cuffs off his ankles. The leather is rubbing his skin raw, but he can't seem to make himself stop moving.

Bull's hand is warm, almost too warm on top of those raw patches of skin, but it quiets the urge to move because he doesn't want to do anything that would prompt Bull to take his hand away.

"That's about half of it," Bull says, and Dorian's eyes open wide. Only _half?_

Dorian is still staring at him when Bull asks, "You sure you want the rest?" Before Dorian can answer, he adds, "Same rules: you can say yes, no, or the safeword."

A small part of him wants to say no, but the rest of him is eager for that slow tease to continue, to know that he's taken the entire thing. Because if Bull fucks him all the way to the base with it, then Dorian can feel every one of those ridges going in and out.

He doesn't even bother trying to speak, just nods his head as emphatically as he can from his current position.

Bull smiles, scanning him from head to foot. "Let me know if that changes." He rubs his thumb over the friction burn, smiling wider when Dorian's toes curl.

The next time it isn't his thumb: it's his mouth, tongue and teeth on oversensitive skin, his hand forcing Dorian's foot to flex back so Bull can suck on the skin. Dorian would try to figure out how that manages to be so hot except he's too busy trying not to swallow his tongue.

He's so focused on the way Bull's mouth feels that it catches him by surprise when Bull pushes on the dildo again. Just another inch before he stops again, smiling down at Dorian as if he knows exactly how much Dorian wants the rest.

"Hold still for me," Bull says, his palm hot against the top of Dorian's foot before he leans over to pluck something off the nightstand. The cock ring.

Bull stretches it between his thumb and fingers several times, holding it out where Dorian can see it. When Dorian is almost mesmerized, Bull reaches down and slides it over his dick, the pads of his fingers the only contact Dorian gets until the ring is all the way at the base of his cock.

Then his hand is back on the dildo, pressing it in one slow inch at a time while Dorian tries not to move. He feels each ridge as a distinct sensation, until the entire thing is inside him and Bull can brace his knee against the base. Dorian gets a second to adjust, then Bull flexes his leg, and Dorian doesn't even recognize the sound that comes out of his own mouth.

Bull drags him down the bed a few inches, taking out even the minimal slack in the ropes that would have allowed him to move and pressing him harder against the dildo. Dorian can feel the strain in his shoulders, and he has to work just a little harder for every breath. With his legs pinned to Bull's chest, there's nowhere he can go, and Bull's hand on his calf is gripping hard enough to bruise

His other hand, though, is light as it rubs Dorian's thigh. "Okay?" he asks.

Dorian nods, because he's definitely more than okay, but Bull shakes his head. "Out loud. Yes or no."

It's hard to get enough air to speak, but Dorian manages to gasp out, "Yes!"

Bull's hand squeezes his calf harder for a second. "God," he breathes. "If you could see yourself right now."

That might be the last thing Dorian wants. Even the thought is enough to rouse his self-consciousness and he shakes his head without thinking about it.

"Okay," Bull says, stroking his thigh. "It's fine, you don't have to, don't worry about it." He turns his head to kiss Dorian's ankle. "But god, you look good like this. I know how much you want it, and you're not even fighting me for it." His hand travels down Dorian's leg to his cock, palm brushing over the head. Lightly, still teasing, and Dorian concentrates on his breathing so he doesn't try to rub his dick against Bull's hand.

Because Bull is giving him that approving smile, the one Dorian wants even more than he now wants to come.

Bull rubs his cheek against Dorian's foot, stubble harsh against the scrapes left by the cuffs, and says, "You've got no idea how amazing you are."

They're words Dorian would normally shrug off, but tonight he can't, not when Bull says them in that awed voice, while looking at him like they're some truth as basic as the color of the sky.

"Fucking incredible," Bull says. Then he grins. "And that should be rewarded, shouldn't it?"

He wraps his hand around Dorian's cock and strokes down as he shoves his knee forward. Dorian groans. There's the tight heat around his dick and the hard length in his ass stretching him wide, and it's a minor miracle he manages to hold still. Bull relaxes his leg and breathes out a smug "ha!"

"Fucking incredible," he says again. He strokes Dorian's cock a few times, slow and soft, watching him twitch and gasp under the touch, before he says, "You can move now. Show me how much you want this."

Dorian's hands clench into tight fists as he pulls hard against the ropes, not so much wanting to get away as searching for some release for his need to move. It does drag him a few inches up the bed until Bull drags him back, and that feels so good Dorian does it again, pulling himself up by his arms just to make Bull haul him back down onto the dildo to fuck him again. Bull is rocking his leg at the same time, putting pressure on the base as he pulls Dorian back and releasing the pressure as Dorian drags himself away, and Dorian would swear he can feel the entire length of it sliding in and out.

As good as it feels, it's also tiring, his arms quickly beginning to burn from the strain of pulling his entire body across the mattress. He doesn't want to stop, but it doesn't take long before his muscles are trembling. When he tries to pull himself up again, Bull's arm around his legs tightens, holding him in place while Bull continues to fuck him. The strokes are shorter but faster, and just as deep, and Dorian gives up fighting the limits of his own body.

Bull's hand on his cock is matching the pace, his strokes picking up speed as he fucks Dorian hard and deep. Dorian can barely make his eyes focus, but whenever he looks up, Bull is watching his face as eagerly as if he's the one being stroked. Dorian's balls are starting to tighten, the pressure at the base of his cock building, and Bull's expression feeds both sensations.

The only thing he's aware of other than Bull is the ring at the base of his cock, and he isn't sure whether he loves it or hates it. Hanging perpetually on the edge of orgasm is agonizing, his muscles starting to shake with the need to come, but he doesn't want this to end, either. Bull's hand is squeezing his cock while his ass feels stretched almost too full, and it's all as much pain as pleasure.

Bull's hand on his cock stops, and Dorian would shout in frustration if he could get enough air for it. What he manages is more of a whine as he tries to flex his hips, but Bull's arm is tight around his legs again. The one thing he can do is rock his hips enough to shift the dildo. It's not as satisfying as Bull fucking him with it, but it's definitely better than nothing, so he repeats the motion, trying to-

"Stop," Bull says.

Pulled up short by the force behind that one word, Dorian stops, wanting to obey more than he wants to be fucked even though his body screams in protest.

"Good," Bull says, the word flooding warmth through Dorian. At the moment, he can't think of anything he wouldn't do to hear Bull say that again. Holding still is a small price to pay for the approving look he's getting now.

"Good," Bull says again. "So good."

He doesn't touch Dorian more than absolutely necessary as he removes the cock ring, and Dorian squints up at him suspiciously. By the smile at the corner of Bull's mouth, he knows exactly how much Dorian wants to demand more, and he's going out of his way to avoid it.

His hand feels huge against Dorian's stomach, pressing down hard. Dorian doesn't understand why until Bull's other hand tugs at the base of the dildo, pulling it slowly out while Dorian whimpers. It's starting to hurt now that he's not about to come, but if Bull asked him, he'd demand more anyway. He wants that so much, to feel something huge and hard slamming into him over and over until he comes.

Bull clearly has other ideas, however, as he's already lowering Dorian's legs to the bed, tossing the dildo to one side, and Dorian only just remembers that he's not supposed to talk.

He deliberately skirts the line and makes a needy sound in his throat, but Bull just grins at him. "In a second."

This time, the noise Dorian makes is more disapproving than needy, but it doesn't get any better result. Still smiling, Bull ties his legs down without unclipping the cuffs from each other, pulling the ropes tight. Dorian is back to fighting for air, the position limiting him to shallow breaths right when he needs as much as he can get.

It doesn't get any better when Bull straddles his legs, leaning down to kiss the center of Dorian's chest before his mouth moves lower. His lips tracing the curve of Dorian's hipbone and the top of his thigh are all the confirmation needed that the teasing is deliberate: the kisses are wet and warm, trailing near Dorian's cock without ever touching it.

It's tempting to pretend he's forgotten that Bull ordered him not to move, but he hasn't forgotten, and he knows Bull hasn't either. If the teasing is deliberate, then that only makes Dorian more determined to hold still, to prove to both of them that he can do it. That he can be as good as Bull wants him to be.

Just when he's beginning to congratulate himself on his control, Bull kisses the base of his cock, and Dorian shudders. His body mostly stays flat on the mattress, but only mostly.

Bull chuckles, a rumbling vibration against his thigh, and Dorian whines softly. "Yeah," Bull says, kissing his hip. "I know, but I like you this way, all hot for it." Another kiss, this time on the other hip. "You want it so bad, and you're trying so hard to be good, and fuck." He turns his face to rub his cheek against Dorian's thigh, stubble burning the skin and his mouth so close his breath touches Dorian's cock. "You've got no idea how good you are."

The words are almost as overwhelming as his touch, and the two together leave Dorian hovering on that line between the sharp clarity of reality and the white-out of subspace. His head is starting to swim, his last few remaining thoughts muffled, his body filling his awareness: every wrinkle in the sheet, every drop of sweat rolling down his sides, and most of all, every place where his skin touches Bull's.

All of which makes him hyper-aware of Bull sliding up his body until they're hip to hip. Looking down at Bull's cock so close to his own, holding still no longer seems so easy. He wants to feel Bull against him, wants to feel skin sliding on skin everywhere possible, not just the small patches where Bull's thighs squeeze against his.

Dorian closes his eyes, struggling for some small measure of control even as Bull seems determined to break it by twisting hard at the ring in one of his nipples. As much as Dorian wants to hold still, his back bows up anyway, shoving his chest against Bull's fingers. He tries to flatten it out, but Bull switches sides to twist the other ring, and Dorian groans, his shoulders straining to come off the bed.

Bull's hand rolling the condom onto Dorian's cock doesn't help his control in the least, and the fistful of lube might actually count as torture. Dorian forces his body flat to the bed without opening his eyes, bracing for what he knows is next.

When nothing happens after a few seconds, Dorian opens his eyes to find Bull watching him. As if he had been waiting for Dorian to look at him, Bull shifts onto one knee, reaching behind himself with two slick fingers. Dorian can't see what he's doing, but he can imagine it, and he feels his body starting to shake again.

"Look at me," Bull says, as if Dorian could look anywhere else right now. With one hand, he taps his cheek under his good eye, still fucking himself with the other. "Keep your eyes right here."

He smiles at Dorian's jerky nod and wipes his hand on the towel, the one that was around his neck when he came out of the bathroom and that Dorian had forgotten about completely. Is forgetting again already, because Bull is above him, knees against his sides, leaning back until Dorian's cock is resting against his ass.

And then he stops like that, just shy of fucking himself, too perfect a mirror of what he did to Dorian earlier to be an accident. It's no less of a torture from this side, Dorian realizes: he can feel Bull's ass above him, slick and ready, but the pressure is as light as a kiss. He could move, roll his hips up and fuck Bull and lose all the warm approval in Bull's gaze, or he could lie still and maybe die of the anticipation when his heart gives out or his lungs refuse to start working again.

Just before Dorian either passes out or gives up on control, Bull sinks back, taking Dorian's cock so slowly it's barely less of a tease. It's been a long time since Dorian fucked anyone, and as much as he loves to be fucked, right now the tight heat of Bull's ass is the only thing he wants. When Bull fucked him earlier, he could feel every ridge in the glass as it pushed into him. Now he can feel the opposite, Bull's ass squeezing around the head and then the shaft of his dick, lower and lower while Bull's lips part and his eye narrows without quite closing. And then Bull's weight is resting on his hips, the pressure reminding him exactly how sore his ass is, and it's Dorian's mouth falling open as he struggles for air.

Bull leans forward to brace his elbows on the mattress beside Dorian's head, his body curving over Dorian's so that he blocks out everything else in the room. Which is all right by Dorian, since he didn't want to look at anything else anyway. Bull's height and the angle make kissing awkward, but he presses his lips to Dorian's temple so that his too-quick breaths are all Dorian can hear.

"It's been a while," Bull breathes into his hair. "It's been a long while, and fuck, you feel so good." He clenches his ass, squeezing like a fist, and groans softly. "Forgot how good this could be."

Then he starts to move. Slowly at first, leaning forward and then easing himself back in careful, unhurried strokes that make Dorian want to beg him to go faster. His breaths are quick but still steady, and Dorian would think he was barely affected except that his cock is hard where it's trapped between their stomachs.

Focused on not begging, Dorian doesn't even realize he's smothering every noise until Bull murmurs, "I want to hear you."

Dorian groans, unable to help himself, then groans again when Bull whispers "yes" into his hair. Bull is moving faster now, and the ache in Dorian's ass is almost like there's still a cock inside him, catching him between the twin sensations of fucking Bull and being fucked in turn. He's reduced to inarticulate noises, unable to say anything even if he wanted to, echoing Bull's gasps and moans as Bull fucks them both at the same time.

Bull levers himself up to brace one hand on the wall behind the bed, settling more of his weight on Dorian's hips as he starts to jerk himself off with quick, hard strokes.

" _Look at me_ ," Bull says, and Dorian's head snaps up. He tears his eyes away from Bull's cock and looks up to meet Bull's gaze, desperate for more and wanting Bull to see it. Bull is still fucking himself on Dorian's cock, but his movements are no longer as even as they were, his hips twitching as his hand moves. His eye is slitted almost closed, his jaw clenched, and the arm above Dorian's head is trembling as much as his legs where they grip Dorian's sides.

He bends forward again, curling down until he can press his mouth to Dorian's. It's awkward and sloppy, but Dorian doesn't care, just sucks on Bull's tongue and lips the way he sucked Bull's cock earlier.

Bull groans, his eye closing, and his body shakes as he comes into his fist. At no point in his life has Dorian ever been particularly eager to have someone come on him, but he wants it now, wants to feel the heat spatter across his stomach and chest while Bull's ass clenches around his cock.

He's going to have to tell Bull that, he thinks hazily, but not right now. The disappointment of not getting to feel Bull come on his skin, on his lips, is insignificant compared to everything else, not least of all to watching Bull's shoulders heave while his head hangs down and his fingers press hard against the wall as he tries to recover.

Bull opens his eye and smiles down at him. As if he knows exactly what Dorian is thinking, he takes his hand off his cock and licks his fingers without breaking eye contact, and Dorian licks his lips, too. He wants those fingers in his mouth, wants to clean them the way he licked off the syrup on Sunday morning. Bull's smile is wicked, even if he is still breathing too fast, and that smile widens when he wipes his hand on the towel and Dorian whimpers.

"Come on," Bull whispers, like he's coaxing Dorian along, rocking his hips back deliberately to increase the pressure on Dorian's ass. "Move, talk, whatever you need, just let me feel you."

Dorian moans and tries to move, futile as that effort is with Bull's weight pinning him to the bed, but then Bull is moving with him, fucking himself every bit as hard as he fucked Dorian earlier. Combined with the ache in his own ass, it's almost too perfect.

Then Bull's hand is in his hair, pulling hard, and Dorian's eyes squeeze closed as he comes, body twisting as far as the ropes and Bull's body will allow. He hangs for a small eternity, the force of his orgasm jerking through his body, every muscle so tight he can't even breathe or cry out, until the need for air finally wins, and he collapses back to the mattress to suck in desperate breaths. It's not a long way back to the bed, but he's as dizzy as if he just tumbled off a cliff.

Warm fingers on his face bring him a little closer to reality, and he blinks his eyes open to smile blearily at Bull. "There you are," Bull murmurs, as if Dorian had gotten lost somewhere.

"Here I am," he mumbles back. "And there you are."

The words are nearly unintelligible even to his own ears, but Bull chuckles and strokes his cheek lightly. "Yup," he agrees. "Here I am, so stay with me for just a second."

His hand leaves Dorian's face, which Dorian feels is nearly criminal even if it is unclipping the cuffs from the ropes. From there, both his hands smooth over Dorian's body, rubbing at muscles that are still trembling and pulling the cuffs from his wrists and ankles.

Finally, just before Dorian manages to collect enough brain cells to complain at his absence, Bull stretches out beside him on the bed. Face to face, one of Bull's legs tossed over both of his and one of Bull's hands combing through his hair, Dorian kisses his way up Bull's neck in search of his lips. Bull chuckles and tilts his head down obligingly, mouth warm and open to Dorian's tongue, and Dorian makes a small noise as he presses closer. For all that he's been naked against Bull almost since he entered the bedroom, he feels needier now than ever, if in a different way. For his part, Bull doesn't seem interested in putting any space between them, and Dorian does everything he can to merge his skin with Bull's.

"I got you," Bull says, still a little breathless, and when he rubs his hand over Dorian's back, there's a faint tremor running through it. "I got you."

Out of nowhere, the words flash through Dorian's head: "Who's got you?" He doesn't say them out loud, not sure they would even make sense to anyone else.

He has no idea how long they stay like that before Bull makes an apologetic noise and pulls away. "We need to clean up," he says, stroking Dorian's hair back from his face. "And we're both going to be sorry tomorrow if we don't."

"Fuck that," Dorian says into his throat, but he knows Bull is right. Without waiting for an answer, he pushes gently on Bull's chest and says in a tone of exaggerated disappointment, " _Fine._ If that's what you want."

Bull catches his mouth for another quick kiss, and Dorian can feel his smile. "Not what I want, but life sucks sometimes."

"So do I," Dorian says, very seriously.

"Oh, I know," Bull says, laughing. "And you're really good at it."

"I know," Dorian says, pushing on Bull's chest again. "Now go away so you can come back."

That gets him another laughing kiss before Bull slides out of bed and begins gathering up the toys now scattered around the bed.

"You want help?" Dorian asks sleepily.

"Nah, I got it." Bull smiles at him, and Dorian smiles back. "You can do it next time."

"Okay," Dorian says.

Still feeling floaty, he watches Bull move around the room, folding clothes and washing up. When he comes back from the bathroom with the dildo in one hand, that unmoored feeling has Dorian speaking before he's had a chance to think it all the way through. "I hate that word."

In the middle of putting everything back into his bag, Bull pauses and looks over at him with a quizzical expression. "What word?"

"Dildo." He channels Max--because the last person he wants to think about right now is his mother--to get the right amount of scorn into the word.

Bull's eyebrow goes higher. "I guess it is kind of weird."

"It's childish," Dorian says, and he knows tomorrow he's going to be embarrassed that he actually had this conversation with anyone, but right now, his mouth just keeps moving.

"Hadn't really thought about it that way," Bull says, now looking amused.

"It's not a word you can shout at the height of passion, is it? 'Yes, yes, fuck me with your big cock!' is hot."

"It certainly is," Bull agrees, on the edge of laughter.

"'Yes, yes, fuck me with your big dildo!' isn't the same at all."

Bull's laughing outright now. "I think you're just supposed to say, 'Yes, yes, fuck me!' and assume the other person can figure out with what."

"But what if you want something specific?" Dorian demands. "With you, there are choices. _Options_. It's like a menu at a restaurant. I can't just say, 'Bring me something good,' because there's more than one good possibility. It depends what I'm in the mood for." He points accusingly at Bull. "And weren't you the one telling me I have to ask for what I want?"

Bull's laughing hard enough he has to sit down on the floor, where he wheezes for a while with one arm wrapped around his ribs. "Well, you come up with a better word than dildo, and I'll use it, how about that?"

Dorian sniffs. "Now you're just making fun of me."

"Not at all," Bull says, but since he's still laughing, it's hard to believe him.

Normally, there are few things in the world Dorian hates more than being laughed at, but lying in bed still boneless from being thoroughly fucked, watching Bull sit on the floor and giggle, he just smiles back. The floating is settling down, the unmoored feeling dissipating, but rather than dropping him back into anxiety and fear, he just feels happy and relaxed.

"Can I get a hand?" Bull asks, and Dorian realizes he's trying to get up.

"What's in it for me?" Dorian asks lazily, without lifting his head from the pillow.

Bull waves the dildo at him and cracks up again.

With a long-suffering sigh, Dorian half climbs, half rolls out of bed and into Bull's lap, straddling him to lean in until his mouth is less than an inch from Bull's. Bull's stopped laughing, but he is grinning.

"Yes, yes!" Dorian breathes. "Fuck me with your big whatever the hell that is." He's not entirely sure he means it, not after what they just did, but if anyone could make it good, it would be Bull.

But Bull just smiles and kisses him lightly, stroking his back with gentle fingers. "How's tomorrow for you? Think you can pencil me in on your calendar?"

"I'll have my people call your people," Dorian says solemnly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, confession time: that last conversation? Totally an author insertion (pardon the pun). I may never write smut with sex toys again, unless somebody can find me a word that isn't dildo. I wasn't overly fond of it to start with, and now I really hate it.


	25. Kiss Away Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there trouble ahead  
> For you the acrobat  
> I won't push you unless you have a net  
> You say the word  
> You know I will find you  
> Or if you need some time  
> I don't mind  
> I don't hold on  
> To the tail of your kite  
> I'm not like the girls that you've known  
> But I believe I'm worth coming home to  
> Kiss away night  
> This girl only sleeps with butterflies  
> With butterflies  
> So go on and fly then boy
> 
> Tori Amos, "Sleeps With Butterflies"

The next morning, Bull's back hates him. Really hates him. Hates him in a way it hasn't in months. The ache travels from his knees to his jaw, a vicious reminder of every time he jumped out of a perfectly good airplane, or hauled an unconscious body across sandy ground while gunfire ripped through the air over his head.

 _You're not twenty anymore,_ it says to him.

 _So what?_ he replies. Because he'll take a repeat of last night any time, even if he is going to be hobbling around most of today.

Standing in the shower with hot water pounding down on him, waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in, Bull can't help but laugh at himself. He really isn't twenty anymore, and god knows he's abused his body more than most people his age. Last night was a little more athletic than he usually gets these days, from tossing Dorian over his shoulder to sleeping curled around Dorian instead of in a slightly more back-friendly position.

It's not as if he isn't aware of his own limits. He just...chose to ignore them, because when his back started to twinge, he'd been riding Dorian's cock and better than halfway to orgasm. And afterward, he wasn't going to leave Dorian hanging like that, literally or metaphorically. Besides, he's had plenty of experience at ignoring pain, and watching Dorian's face had been a damn good distraction. The memory alone is a pretty good distraction now.

The rest of the day is going to be a problem, though. He can't walk around half hard, which is what will happen if he spends too much time thinking about Dorian the way he looked last night. Fortunately, the ibuprofen should take the edge off soon enough, and he can cope with whatever's left.

When he gets out of the shower, he's surprised to find the bed empty. It's barely past four in the morning, and he'd been careful to get the alarm off as fast as possible so Dorian could sleep a little longer. The noises of sleepy protest Dorian made when Bull slipped out of bed were almost too cute, and they'd made Bull smile even as he hobbled into the bathroom with his back reading him the riot act. As sleepy as they'd been, though, he certainly hadn't expected Dorian to get up after Bull went into the bathroom.

By the smell beginning to drift up the stairs, he's done a lot more than just get out of bed. Bull dresses hurriedly and follows his nose to the kitchen, where--not too surprisingly--he finds Dorian making French toast.

Or at least, there's French toast in a skillet on the stove, and presumably Dorian's paying at least some attention to it. Most of his attention is on something else, though: he's standing on one foot, the other a few inches off the ground, and he's studying the friction burns from the leather cuffs with a level of intensity that could be sexy or could be alarming, if only Bull knew what was going through his head.

Then Dorian smiles and rotates his ankle. Bull knows exactly what he's doing: stretching the skin tight so that the marks burn a little. Which is definitely hot as hell, especially combined with that smile. If Bull could move like a normal human being, he'd be tempted to see if they can do a repeat performance of the other day, Dorian pressed up against him while Bull jerks him off. His ass has to be sore from last night, and Bull could-

Bull could go to work. He could also avoid things that will leave him bent over from the pain. Pinning Dorian against anything is right out. For now, anyway.

Dorian looks up, then, and almost falls over when he sees Bull. "Good morning," he says, putting his foot down and straightening as if Bull's caught him doing something he shouldn't. "Breakfast? I bought more syrup."

Maybe he can't pin Dorian against anything, but he can definitely cross the kitchen to steal a kiss and murmur in Dorian's ear, "You're going to be feeling it all day, aren't you? Every time you walk, you'll feel those burns, and every time you sit, you're going to remember me fucking you so hard."

And Dorian...Dorian _laughs_ , turning his face so he can whisper in Bull's ear, "I will. So you can think about _that_ all day. Maybe this afternoon I'll just sit in my office and let myself get hard, remembering. Of course, someone might walk in, so I won't be able to do anything about it." He kisses Bull's jaw, just in front of his ear, very lightly. "Or maybe I'll close my door and take my chances."

Jesus fucking Christ. Bull is re-considering the question of pinning Dorian up against the wall. If he could make it to his knees with a hope of getting back up after, he would be there already, sucking and stroking Dorian's cock while encouraging Dorian to keep telling him all about this little fantasy.

"But," Dorian says brightly, shoving him away, "no time for that this morning."

The shove sends another spasm of pain through Bull's back, and he barely hides a grimace. He doesn't want Dorian worrying about him, or thinking he did anything wrong, and it's not like there's anything Dorian could do, anyway. His back is fucked, and sometimes it likes to remind him of that.

Especially when he's been stupid.

Dorian has already turned back to the stove and is flipping another slice of French toast onto the plate in the oven, which gives Bull time to take a few deep, quiet breaths. The pain has killed most of his hard-on, and the breathing and holding still kills most of the pain, so that by the time Dorian is sliding the next piece of bread into the pan, Bull is feeling almost able to think again.

With his back still toward Bull, Dorian sets the spatula down and rotates his wrist slowly, much as he rotated his ankle earlier. Bull doesn't think he's even aware he's doing it, but Bull can't stop himself from catching his hand.

"Doing okay?" he asks, circling Dorian's wrist with his thumb and forefinger.

Dorian looks at him over one shoulder, smiling. "Oh yes. A little sore, but it will pass. You?"

It's kind of funny, Dorian checking in when he was the one tied down last night, but Bull just smiles back. "Yeah, I'm good." Because he is. The current state of his back doesn't count.

"You are very good," Dorian teases, leaning back against him. He can't see Bull's face from this angle, and Bull's glad, because having to brace Dorian's weight as well as his own sends another spike of pain up to his jaw.

Before he can find a way to shift Dorian without drawing attention to the pain, Dorian shifts himself, leaning forward to peer under the edges of the slice in the pan. "Happy birthday, by the way," Dorian says as he flips the slice over. "Forty-two, huh?"

"Forty-two," Bull agrees, and for a second, the pain in his back is less important than the way his chest squeezes. It was like this last year, too, the realization that another year has passed, putting more distance between himself and the life he thought he would be living right now. He misses the army like he misses his eye. Hell, they can keep the eye if he can be back in uniform, back in the life he wanted.

He pushes all of that away before it can settle in and ruin the whole day. Instead, he watches Dorian moving around the kitchen, pulling out a plate and utensils while he keeps one eye on the stove. He's wearing an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, his hair is a complete disaster, and Bull suddenly wants to pin him against the counter for a reason that has nothing to do with sex. Bull could walk up behind him right now, block him in with an arm on either side, and bury his face in Dorian's hair, just breathe in the smell of him. He'd be warm, Bull knows, and he'd curl into the contact the way he always does in private, fitting his body into Bull's so perfectly.

The realization dawns slowly: if he was still in the army, he wouldn't have this. Not Dorian tied up and begging, not Dorian sleepy and warm against him, not Dorian getting up two hours early to make him breakfast. It's hard to say whether it's worth it, but it's the first time in two years anything has even come close, and Bull is suddenly a little dizzy.

"I'll set the table," he says, gathering everything up to give himself time to recover.

Dorian makes an affirmative noise, most of his attention on the stove, and Bull retreats to the dining room to set the table. He's only setting it for one, he realizes belatedly, and he calls back, "Aren't you eating?"

"Do I ever?" Dorian calls back, laughter in his voice.

"You should," Bull says, frowning a little.

"I'll eat later," Dorian says. "At work."

More granola bars, Bull suspects, and he's not sure why it's bothering him now when it never has before.

Coming out of the kitchen with the plate of French toast, Dorian catches sight of his face and rolls his eyes as he sets the plate down. "I'll eat later," he says, negotiating the delicate process of getting his hand out from under the plate while leaving the potholder behind to protect the table. "I promise. I just don't like to eat first thing in the morning."

Bull wants to push him on it, which is a weird feeling all on its own. Dorian's a grown-up, and he's allowed to decide when and whether he eats, just as much as he's allowed to say how he gets fucked. Bull's always lived by that rule, with all his partners, and it doesn't sit well with him to find that his brain is trying to rationalize its way around itself.

"Sit," Dorian says, "before it gets cold."

He sounds a little hesitant now, and Bull realizes what it must look like, him just standing there frowning at the table.

"Smells amazing," he says, smiling at Dorian. That, at least, is easy. Looking at Dorian usually makes him want to smile.

Especially when Dorian smiles back the way he does now. "Everything I do is amazing," Dorian says. "Now eat the amazing French toast while it's still amazing."

The process of applying the correct amounts of butter and syrup to his breakfast gives him time to get himself back together. When his French toast is swimming on his plate, he takes a huge bite and plays it up, rolling his good eye up to the ceiling and making the kind of noises he usually only makes during sex. "This is amazing."

Elbows propped on the other end of the table, Dorian smiles around his cup of coffee. "You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time." And it is. Though the best thing he could do for his health would be to convince Dorian that he doesn't need to cook up the entire loaf of bread when it's just the two of them. "For a guy who only cooks once a week, you've got French toast down cold."

"I can put it in the microwave if it's cold," Dorian says, and Bull pretends to throw his knife at him.

"You know what would make it better, though?" Bull says thoughtfully.

Dorian rolls his eyes. "I'm not letting you pour syrup on me. That's disgusting, in so many ways."

Bull privately disagrees--he's pretty sure any reason to lick any part of Dorian is a good reason--but he doesn't argue. Now that he's gotten that strange, overbearing protectiveness under control, he wants to keep this morning on the same note it started on. "I was _going_ to say, it would be better if you were down at this end of the table."

This time, Dorian's smile is smaller, more pensive, and Bull's radar starts to ping. He points his fork down the table, glad to be able to focus on Dorian again. "Talk to me."

Dorian shakes his head, but his smile has lost some of its worried edge. "You like tying me up," he says, then stalls out.

Thinking too hard again, but Bull doesn't need any more clues than that to guess what's on Dorian's mind. "You want to tie me up?"

"I...don't know. Maybe?" He shrugs one shoulder as if it doesn't matter, but this is Dorian. If he's gotten as far as saying something, then it matters. "Or something like that, because I know you said you don't like being tied."

Bull eats another careful bite of French toast, amazed Dorian even remembers that. It's not like there wasn't a ton of other stuff flying around during their conversation in the coffee shop. Even though Dorian had turned his questions around on him, Bull hadn't been sure if he was actually paying attention to the answers.

When he's pretty sure the amazement isn't going to show in his voice, he asks, "You know there's a lot more to it than the rope, right?"

"I know," Dorian says. Bull hears him take a sip of his coffee. "Have you ever...done that...before?"

"Been a sub? Yeah." He doesn't need to see Dorian's wince to know it's there; Dorian doesn't like to think of himself as submissive in any part of his life. "I think knowing what it's like to be a sub makes me a better Dom."

"Do you...enjoy it?"

"When it's done right." Which isn't often, not for Bull. Of the few people he's met who were willing, too many were only interested in feeding their own egos by "conquering" someone as big as he is. A Dom on a power trip isn't anyone Bull wants to be around.

That's when the subject comes up at all. Most people, once they get a look at his size, see someone born to be a Dom, someone strong enough to make them feel safe or strong enough to scare them in all the right ways. Which is fine. He gets off on other people getting off, and his personal No List has never been very long.

He does have good memories of a few Doms, mostly from when he was younger. There was a Domme--she made it clear she was never a Dom--who worked at a club near his first posting in Germany, and she set the bar pretty high. Almost twenty years later, and he still has to work hard to think of her as anything except Ma'am.

"Soooo," Dorian says, drawing out the word until Bull looks at him again. "How do you do it right?"

"Well, that question's a good start," Bull says dryly, smiling at Dorian's snort. A glance shows Dorian still with his elbows on the table, half hiding behind his coffee cup, but he meets Bull's gaze without blushing.

"I want to do it right," Dorian says quietly.

Which from Dorian the Over-Achiever is a lot like saying, "I want to breathe," because Bull's pretty sure he's incapable of doing anything half-assed. Anything worth doing is worth doing perfectly. Yeah, Max got that one right.

"But only if you want to do it at all," Dorian adds, and Bull realizes he's been staring down the table, lost in thought. "I...can't do what you do, and I don't...know how important that is."

Bull cuts off another bite of French toast while he tries to figure that one out, but he's still confused by the time he's chewed and swallowed. "Not sure I follow. What I do?"

Now Dorian blushes, his gaze flicking down to the table. "You're stronger than I am." He seems to think about that, then snorts. "Which may be the understatement of the century."

"Maybe," Bull says, smiling a little. "Still not following, though. I'm stronger than most people."

There's a long pause, and Bull resists the urge to start throwing out suggestions about what Dorian might be trying to say. The last thing he wants is to put words in Dorian's mouth, especially over something like this.

"It should terrify me," Dorian says at last. "To be that helpless. You could do anything to me, and if you decided to ignore the safeword, there's nothing I could do about it."

Bull starts to protest that he would never do that, then stops when Dorian shakes his head. "I know you wouldn't. And...and that's what I'm trying to say. You could hurt me, but I know you won't, and it makes me feel..." He worries at the inside of his lower lip, as if he's afraid to say whatever word is on the tip of his tongue.

It's not easy, but Bull manages to keep quiet. Another bite of French toast helps with that, ensuring that his mouth is too full for his foot to sneak in.

"It makes me feel safe," Dorian finishes at last. "And you don't like to be tied, I know, but it means I can't give you that, because you'll always be stronger than me." He shrugs one shoulder. "You don't need me to protect you."

Jesus. Bull's regretting that last bite right now, because he's having a hell of a time getting it down his throat. It takes the last two swallows of his coffee before he can talk. "There's lots of ways to take care of people," he says, and Dorian's gaze comes back to his. "And not just by making them feel safe."

Dorian looks away again, his cheeks turning red, and he takes a hasty gulp of his coffee. "I think it's a shame the process of picking a sex partner isn't a bit more like a job interview."

Bull recognizes the beginning of a nervous babble when he hears one, and as curious as he is to know exactly how Dorian made that leap, he can't leave him hanging like that. "Dorian," he interrupts. "I'm not saying no. I'm just saying it's not something we do on a whim."

"All right," Dorian says, but it's clear from his expression that he's already ticked the "no" checkbox in his head.

Leaving his plate behind, Bull gets up and moves down the table to take the chair across the corner from Dorian. "Can we talk about this again when I don't have to be at work in thirty minutes?" He keeps his tone gentle, because he does want to talk about it, just not with a timer ticking away in the back of his head.

"Tonight?" Dorian asks. "Talk about it, I mean, not do anything."

"Tonight," Bull agrees, pushing Dorian's mug out of the way so he can kiss him briefly. "I'll be off at eight."

Dorian makes a pleased noise and leans into the kiss, which is the point where Bull's back reminds him that it's still not very happy with him. He straightens as fast as he can without looking like he's jerking away from the kiss.

At least Dorian doesn't seem to notice, just reclaims his coffee and asks, "Do you want me to pick up some dinner?"

"I'll get something," Bull says. "Now tell me about job interviews for sex partners."

"All right, I was babbling," Dorian admits. "Maybe it's better if we pretend I didn't say it."

"Oh no," Bull says. "That's way too interesting to leave alone. Tell me more. Do I need a resume? What about a cover letter?"

"Definitely a resume," Dorian says, "and I feel like a failure because I can't think of any jokes to make about cover letters."

"So why a job interview?"

"Well, the whole point of a job interview is to try to get an idea of whether this is a good fit, right?" Dorian sips his coffee before adding, "We want to know if the candidate can get the job done, and the candidate wants to know that they're not going to go crazy after working with us for a week. Same thing as finding a compatible partner, really."

Which makes sense, though Bull's not sure he would have thought of it as a job interview. "I love the way your brain works, sometimes," he says. "So long as I get to be in on any interviews you're doing."

Dorian sets his coffee down so he can mime holding up a piece of paper, tilting his head back as if looking at it through an imaginary pair of reading glasses. "Well, Mr. Hassrad, I see you list twenty-two years of experience."

Grinning, Bull steals Dorian's mug and takes a sip. "Guess I forgot to update that," he says with mock seriousness. "Should be twenty-six."

Dorian makes an imaginary note with his imaginary pen. When he looks up, he's still imitating someone wearing reading glasses, looking over the tops this time to raise one eyebrow at Bull. "And do you spit or swallow?"

Bull, in the middle of taking another sip of Dorian's coffee, instead chokes and spits it back into the mug.

"Spit, I see," Dorian says in a faintly disapproving tone, making another imaginary note.

"Don't call us, we'll call you?" Bull suggests, putting the mug down before Dorian actually succeeds in making him inhale coffee.

"Something like that," Dorian says, dropping the act. "Did I mention we're hiring a new associate?"

"Holy shit," Bull says, pretending to be shocked. "Lavellan and Cadash is a way more interesting place to work than I thought, if that's the kind of questions you ask."

Dorian smirks. "What, did I not tell you about the Friday afternoon orgies? They're very popular with the staff." His raised eyebrow makes it clear the pun is intended.

"Adds a whole new meaning to 'dress-down day,'" Bull says. Then, because he's curious, he asks more seriously, "Been doing a lot of interviews? The real kind, not the sex kind."

"God yes," Dorian says, rolling his eyes. "And they're all the same: arrogant little twits who think they're god's gift to the legal profession because they went to Harvard." He pronounces it with snotty emphasis: "Hah-vuhd."

"Says the man who got accepted to Harvard," Bull says, and gets a sharp look from Dorian. "And I think there was a scholarship involved?"

"It wasn't from the school itself," Dorian says, as if that matters. "And I'm not leaving you alone with Max ever again."

"That was Mae, actually." Bull hesitates, once again wanting to talk about what Max told him about Rilienus, but not sure how to do it. He really doesn't want to ruin this morning.

While Bull is thinking, Dorian gets up from the table, taking his coffee mug with him to dump out the contents and pour himself a fresh mug.

"Hey," Bull says, pretending to be offended and glad to think about something else. "You didn't have a problem with my spit last night."

"Your spit on my dick is hot," Dorian says. "Your spit in my coffee? Not so much."

He comes back to the table, mug in hand, but rather than sit, he stands behind Bull and rubs a hand over his scalp. "Mmmmm," Dorian says. "You shaved."

"I do that most mornings," Bull says.

"And I like it most mornings," Dorian says, running his hand over Bull's shaved head again. "It's all nice and smooth."

His tone is so deliberately campy--so un-Dorian--that Bull laughs and catches his wrist. Carefully, though, mindful of both how hard Dorian was pulling on the cuffs last night _and_ of the fresh cup of coffee that's only inches from his shoulder. "If that's how you're going to act every time, I'll shave every morning."

"Maybe I'll hold you to that," Dorian says archly. He kisses the top of Bull's head, and the only proper response Bull can think of is to kiss the inside of his wrist, letting his mouth linger on the skin.

"I thought you had to get to work," Dorian says, but he makes no effort to take his arm back.

As much as Bull hates it, he's right. "I do," Bull says, and kisses the inside of his wrist again before letting go.

###

Work is difficult, but he manages as best he can. A lot of his personal training sessions don't require him to do anything except stand there, and he passes off to Krem or Rocky the few people who actually need a spotter. Sitting at his desk to do paperwork is a bitch, so he mostly gives up on that for the day, choosing to stand at the counter rather than make his back any worse. The third time Krem walks by the front counter and sees him there, he gives Bull a knowing look.

Despite all that, Bull is in a pretty good mood by the time he gets off work at eight. He's used to pain, after all, and as much as he hates the way back pain jerks him up short with every step, he's used to that, too. It's just something to deal with until it passes.

Most of his attention is focused on anticipating the conversation with Dorian, even if he strongly suspects that the pain in his back is going to keep him from doing anything tonight. That's kind of a shame, actually, because he's already imagining Dorian getting turned on from the conversation, the way he always does the second Bull starts to talk dirty to him. If Bull's back wasn't determined to cock block him, they could have some fun once they've hashed out the important stuff. Nothing requiring safe words or supplies, maybe just blow jobs on the couch. That'd be nice, Dorian stretched out and moaning while Bull sucks him off.

Except there's no way Bull's going to be able to kneel, and definitely no way he's going to be able to sit on Dorian's ridiculously uncomfortable sofa. Maybe they can go to bed early? There has to be a position he can lie in that won't kill his back but that will still let him get Dorian off. Can he claim tiredness to explain away his own apparent lack of interest? Because there's no way he's going to be able to get it up. After fifteen hours on his feet, the pain is starting to make him queasy, but he likes the idea of giving Dorian something better than a goodnight kiss.

He turns the problem over in his head as he grabs dinner and a fresh change of clothes, and he's still working on it as he steps into Dorian's front hallway. Distracted as he is, he misses the signs that would have warned him before Dorian moves. As it is, he's caught completely by surprise when Dorian slings an arm around his neck and yanks him down for an enthusiastic kiss. His back screams a protest, and Bull can't quite swallow a pained noise.

Dorian recoils, staring up at him in surprise. "What's wrong?" he asks.

Bull's eye is watering from the pain, and he has to take a deep breath before he can answer. "Just my back," he says. "It's fine, don't worry about it."

"It's not fine," Dorian says, eyes beginning to narrow. "Not if you look like that. What happened?"

The pain makes it hard to think clearly. He shakes his head, but that hurts, too. "Just my back," he says again. "It does this. But there's better things we could be talking about." He tries for a suggestive smirk.

Dorian is squinting at him now, clearly thinking hard and in all the wrong directions. Well, all the right directions, but not the directions Bull wants him thinking in. "By any chance, does it do this more often after you throw someone over your shoulder?" Dorian asks, a sharp snap to each word.

Despite the pain, Bull huffs out a soft laugh. "Yeah, maybe. Look, it's fine. Or it will be."

Dorian ignores the last part. "By any chance, was it hurting this morning, before you went to work?"

"Just a little," Bull says. It's not really a lie. It didn't hurt nearly as much then as it hurts now. "It's-"

"And by any chance," Dorian says, the snap in his voice now sharp enough to sting, "would it be worse if you worked for fifteen hours pretending nothing's wrong?"

"I didn't pretend nothing's wrong!" Bull says, starting to get annoyed. "I let Krem take my appointments, it's-"

"If you say 'it's fine' again," Dorian says quietly, "I won't be responsible for what I do."

Now more than a little annoyed, Bull forces himself to stand up straight. Before he can say anything, Dorian tips his chin back challengingly and asks, "If our positions were reversed, what would you do?"

Bull thinks back to this morning, and his reaction to Dorian not eating breakfast, then shoves the memory away. "That's different," he begins.

"No," Dorian says, interrupting him again, and okay, that's really starting to piss Bull off. "It's not different. You lied to me, and you were about to do it again."

"What?" Bull demands. "When?"

"When you told me you were fine," Dorian says, enunciating each syllable. "What world do you live in where I wouldn't want to know that you're in pain?"

"What's the point in telling you?" Bull asks, trying to throttle back his anger. This was not how the evening was supposed to go. How it would have gone if Dorian hadn't lost his mind and decided to make an issue out of something that isn't. "There's nothing you can do about it."

Dorian tenses, and Bull braces for an angry rant, or a sarcastic comment, or anything except what actually comes out of Dorian's mouth.

"Did it serve any purpose," Dorian asks with deliberate emphasis, "for me to tell you about the conversion camp?"

There's a long silence, Bull's heart thudding in his chest and the nausea back in force. After the pause has gone on way too long, Bull says again, "That's different." It comes out a lot weaker this time.

"How?" Dorian asks. "There's nothing you can do about something my parents did fifteen years before you met me. So explain to me the difference, because I admit, I haven't yet made the connection."

Bull doesn't say anything, because they both know the answer.

"And unlike that singularly entertaining moment of my childhood," Dorian says, "there are, in point of fact, a variety of ways to alleviate your particular problem."

Words as walls: Bull can hear the retreat in that formal, stilted language, and it hurts more than his back. He draws a deep breath in through his nose, letting the last of his anger go. What little of it that's left after the hole Dorian blew in it.

"Look," he says quietly. "Can we start over?"

"From where, precisely?" Dorian asks, clearly not done being pissed. Now that his own anger isn't clouding his view, Bull can kind of see why.

Rather than answer Dorian directly, Bull opens the front door and steps back out onto the porch, closing the door behind him. Then he immediately turns around and knocks, exactly the way he did when he got here the first time.

There's a second where he thinks Dorian isn't going to let him back in, but then the door opens. He doesn't get a welcoming smile this time, and he hates the wariness that's replaced it.

"Hi," Bull says, like he's just arrived and they weren't almost yelling at each other thirty seconds ago.

"Hi," Dorian says. His throat works, then he says in an almost normal voice, "How are you?"

"My back is killing me," Bull says. The words are easier if he says them like they're a joke, so he grins.

Dorian's return smile is tight. "I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?" He doesn't move to let Bull into the house, and that can't be a good sign, but at least he opened the door.

"I was showing off for a guy last night," Bull admits. "It was stupid."

The corner of Dorian's mouth twitches, almost into a real smile. "Was he cute?"

"Definitely," Bull says. "And totally worth it."

Dorian shakes his head, but he's smiling now, stepping back to let Bull in. "I'm not sure he would agree with that assessment."

"He'd be wrong," Bull says. His heart is still beating a little too fast, and his back hurts like holy hell, but he finds a real smile from somewhere. "Totally worth it."

That gets him a disbelieving snort, which he ignores. "Go upstairs," Dorian says. "Take something, for god's sake. Ibuprofen, acetaminophen, aspirin."

"All of the above?" Bull tries.

"If that's what works, you know where to find them." He points in the direction of the stairs. "Go."

"Where will you be?"

"Following behind you shortly," Dorian says. He touches Bull's cheek lightly, looking worried. Bull hates it, hates that he's the cause of it, but he doesn't say anything. "Just...lie down, all right?"

"All right," Bull agrees.

The stairs aren't the most fun he's had recently, but he gets up them and into the bedroom without falling over. He digs the ibuprofen out of Dorian's medicine cabinet and takes four of them, then takes off what he can of his clothes. The shirt is too much right now, so he leaves it on and just crawls into bed to collapse face down.

Being horizontal is such a nice feeling that he's started to drift a little by the time Dorian joins him. He's toting his laptop and a huge stack of papers, and Bull's a little amazed he hasn't dropped any of it. It's on the tip of his tongue to offer a hand when it occurs to him that probably wouldn't go over very well right now. And if he's honest, he probably wouldn't be much help anyway.

So as much as it pains him to do it, he lies there while Dorian stacks the laptop and the papers on the nightstand. His fingers brush against Bull's shoulder, and he asks tentatively, "Do backrubs help?"

"Sometimes," Bull says. "And sometimes my back is just a bastard and nothing helps."

"Would it _hurt_?" Dorian asks.

"Yeah," Bull says, smiling a little. "But I don't think it would do any damage."

Dorian flicks him lightly on the back of the head. "Who's the lawyer here?"

"Definitely you," Bull says. "I don't have the patience for that shit."

"Sometimes I don't either," Dorian mutters. His fingers make the same path across Bull's shoulder, so light he can barely feel it through the t-shirt. "Would Biofreeze help?"

A little surprised, Bull blinks. "If you've got any."

"Somewhere, yes."

"Don't waste a lot of time looking for it," Bull says hastily. "I'll be fine without it."

"I'm sure you will," Dorian says. A little of the earlier bite is back in his words, but Bull's willing to admit he's maybe earned that. Fingers follow Bull's spine downward, and he would swear he hears a sigh.

Then he's walking away, Bull's not entirely sure where, but when he comes back, it's to straddle Bull's hips and push his shirt up. There's the strong, almost overpowering, scent of menthol, just before Dorian asks, "There really isn't a way to warm this up first, is there?"

"Just go for it," Bull says, then hisses when Dorian's hands come down on his back.

His hands are cold, and the menthol smell is now stinging in Bull's eye and nose. His skin is already starting to burn like a sunnova bitch, the telltale icy burn Bull has learned to hate and love. He grits his teeth and just tries to breathe as Dorian works the gel into his back with firm strokes, using his knuckles as much as his fingers and thumbs. It's not a professional massage by any means, but it feels good. Or rather, it hurts like hell, but it's the kind of pain Bull recognizes as good in the long run.

It also lasts a lot longer than Bull would have expected, and he finds himself sinking into the dull ache as his world narrows to this bed and Dorian's hands. When Dorian finally finishes and climbs off him, Bull almost protests before he catches himself. He's been enough trouble for one night, and Dorian's arms and hands have to be tired by now. Asking for more is just selfish, and that's not what he wants.

Rather than say anything, Bull just lies there with his eyes closed, listening to the water running in the sink as Dorian washes his hands. When he comes back into the bedroom, Bull says quietly, "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Dorian says, sounding more tired than pissed now.

Bull would prefer pissed, actually, but he's smart enough not to say so. And smart enough not to do anything to get his wish.

"Do you want to stay like that or sit up?" Dorian asks.

"You got more pillows?" he asks, because as comfortable as his current position is, it's also pretty boring, and he's not ready to fall asleep quite yet. Maybe he can still salvage part of the evening.

Dorian, it turns out, has more than enough pillows to comfortably prop Bull up, once he scavenges a few from the guest rooms. Shifting positions hurts like hell, but once he's actually sitting up with the pillows to support him, it's nice, especially once Dorian brings him his phone so he has something to read. And then Dorian makes his own pile of pillows and crawls into bed beside him, and that's nice, too, even if the laptop and the papers come with him.

It maybe isn't how Bull expected to spend the evening, and it definitely isn't how he _wanted_ to spend the evening, but it's not bad. Dorian works mostly in silence, occasionally humming or muttering to himself as he makes marks on paper or types out notes on the laptop. He even starts to relax, the pinched edges of his lips softening into a faint smile as he plows through whatever it is he's working on. For a guy doing work at nine o'clock at night, he seems remarkably content.

Eventually the papers get evicted, and Dorian turns a little, resting his shoulder lightly against Bull's. "Is this all right?" he asks.

It's not putting any pressure on Bull's back, and even if it was, he likes being close to Dorian. "It's fine."

Dorian cranes his head around to peer at him suspiciously before settling back. "Let me know if that changes."

"Yes, sir," Bull says, smiling.

That gets him a snort, which only makes him smile more.

They're both quiet for a while, Dorian studying whatever he's working on with a frown of concentration while Bull keeps half his attention on his phone and half his attention on Dorian. At ten, Bull finally asks, "How late do you usually work?"

Dorian looks back at him again, blinking a little. "Work?" When Bull tilts his chin--carefully--at the laptop, Dorian smirks. "It's not that kind of work anymore."

"What kind of work is it?" Bull asks. He can't see the screen from this angle, but Dorian's smirk is intriguing.

For an answer, Dorian slides the computer into his lap, tilting the screen at the right angle for Bull to see it, and Bull's eye widens. Apparently Dorian decided that if they weren't going to talk about limits and rules tonight, he was going to find his own information.

"You look at porn on your work computer?" he teases, flipping rapidly through the tabs open in the browser, eyebrow climbing a little higher with each one. Not that they're all porn, but they're definitely all things he wouldn't want any employer of his to see, and he's a lot less uptight about what people think of him than Dorian is.

"More that I look at work on my personal computer," Dorian says dryly. "I can connect to the work servers from here, and I like working on a computer that has everything set up the way I prefer."

Bull suspects Dorian is one of those people who has all his toolbars and icons arranged just so, but he doesn't know how well Dorian would take to being teased about it. Tonight maybe isn't the night to risk it, so he just keeps working his way through what's in front of him. Of course Dorian decided to do his own research; Bull should have known he would. Now the question is whether he actually found anything worth reading amidst all the terrible advice out there. At least he's not reading _Fifty Shades of Grey_ , or watching _Secretary_ , so that's something.

As Bull reads, it becomes clear Dorian's managed to do better than just avoid the blatant stupidity. He's found an impressive variety of bloggers and web comics, from the vanilla to the seriously kinky, and appears to have read more articles in an hour than most people could read in a day. Somewhere in there he also created a new email account, used it to sign up for FetLife--listing his location as Antarctica--and joined three groups.

"You've been busy," Bull says when he gets to the end, matching Dorian's smirk with one of his own.

"Google knows everything," Dorian says, laying his head on Bull's chest. It doesn't escape Bull's notice that the position effectively hides his face. "Some of it's even true. Fortunately, as an attorney, I have a keen sense for truth versus bullshit versus good old-fashioned stupidity."

"Is that because lawyers are so full of those last two?"

"Ha. Ha. Very funny." There's definitely a smile in his voice as he adds, "I was curious what was out there."

"I think you hit the highlights," Bull says.

"All those research skills ought to be good for something," Dorian says. He rubs his face lightly against Bull's chest, then freezes. "Does that hurt?"

"Nah," Bull says. "Mostly it's moving that's the problem. Me moving, not you."

Before Dorian can decide they need to talk about that more, Bull flips back to one of the videos. "Why this one?" he asks curiously. On the screen, a tiny female Dom circles a man on his knees. She might weigh half as much as her sub. "Didn't think women really did it for you."

"They don't," Dorian says, and he sounds thoughtful. "But she's smaller than he is. _Much_ smaller."

Realization dawns, and Bull has to fight back a smile. The woman in the video is probably about the same size relative to her sub that Dorian is to Bull. "Did you take notes?" he teases.

Dorian half turns and gives him a smile that would make Bull's dick take notice in any other circumstances. "I don't need to take notes," Dorian says.

"Really?" Bull asks with just a hint of friendly challenge.

"Really," Dorian says. "And maybe later, I'll show you."

"Or you could show me later and tell me now," Bull says. There's still no way he's getting off tonight, but that doesn't mean Dorian can't.

Except Dorian is pulling away to frown at him again. Bull doesn't know which he likes less, the physical distance or the expression. "What?" Bull asks. "I like listening to you talk dirty. Almost as much as I like talking dirty to you."

The corners of Dorian's eyes tense, then relax, as if he's forcing himself to be calm. "Did it occur to you," he says, "that I might not find it particularly arousing, you being in pain?"

"Not all pain is bad," Bull points out, wondering exactly how much Dorian remembers from their conversation in the coffee shop.

Dorian flushes, and yeah, he remembers the part Bull's thinking of. But despite the flush, his voice is crisp when he says, "This isn't that kind of pain."

"How do you know?" Bull teases.

The look he gets back is unamused. "Look me in the eye," Dorian says, "and tell me it's the kind of pain you like. Then I'll believe you."

"Using my own words against me isn't fair," Bull says, a little irritated. As many times as he's done that to other people, he's never had anyone turn it around on him, and fuck. That's really annoying.

"Since nothing else appears to be making an impact," Dorian says, "I find myself willing to use less-than-honorable tactics."

The walls are coming up, Bull can watch it happen, and he hates it enough that he makes himself say, "Sorry." He's not entirely sure he is, but he's old enough to know he will be later, when he's not so tired and irritated. Might as well apologize now, when it will mean something to Dorian, rather than later, when it might be more sincere but will definitely be less effective.

Dorian looks away, staring at his dresser like it's a teleprompter. "You said this morning that there are many ways to take care of people."

Not sure exactly where this is going, Bull says cautiously, "Yeah."

"And you said that you were willing to talk about...switching." He says the word a little cautiously, and Bull suspects that he's trying it out in this context for the first time.

He's waiting for a response, even if he still isn't making eye contact, so Bull says again, "Yeah."

"And I can only assume that if you're willing to talk about it, you might be willing to do it."

"That's kind of the point of talking about it," Bull says, wondering what Dorian's point is right now.

Dorian's jaw works silently, as if he's chewing on his words. "I can't overpower you physically," he says at last. "And while I've certainly learned a variety of interesting ways to level the playing field between us, I suspect that you know most of them, and know how to counter them. Which means they would only work if you allowed them to work."

"That's fine," Bull says, still not sure what the problem is. "I'm used to that, being bigger and stronger than everyone. It's not really a thing for me, there's lots of ways to make people feel safe." And despite the rocky evening, he does feel safe with Dorian.

He's got his mouth open to say that when Dorian says, "If the point is to make you feel safe, to take care of you, then how can I do that if you won't let me?"

Bull doesn't really have an answer for that, though at least now he knows exactly what Dorian's point is. It's...not actually a bad point, even if it does make Bull's skin itch to think about it.

When he doesn't answer, Dorian goes on quietly, "You say that it's fine, that it's something you want, but you push back like it isn't." He finally looks at Bull, his face tense but not angry. "I'd like to take care of you, but I can't make you allow it."

"I..." Bull discovers he doesn't actually know where that sentence was going, so he starts over. "That's hard for me."

Dorian's mouth twitches. "I've noticed."

The silence that follows is long, but Dorian's gaze doesn't waver from Bull's face until Bull touches his hand where it's still supporting the laptop across Bull's knees. Then his eyes drop to their hands, and to Bull's hand curled loosely around his wrist.

Without the weight of Dorian's gaze on him, it's easier for Bull to say, "I'll work on it."

Dorian gives a small, jerky nod, more like he's ducking his head than agreeing with something. "Thank you."

Bull wants to kiss him, but he's too far away, and sitting up would probably just make Dorian mad again. He takes a chance and tugs on Dorian's wrist, jostling the laptop a little. "Why don't you put this thing down and give me a kiss?"

That gets him a suspicious look, and he laughs. "I swear, I'm not trying to start something. I just like to kiss you."

Dorian doesn't look entirely convinced, but he powers down the laptop and sets it on the night table before coming back to kneel at Bull's side. After a moment's thought, he braces one hand on the wall above Bull's head while the other cups the back of Bull's neck.

The first kiss is hardly more than a peck. Before Bull can protest, Dorian's mouth is back, lingering a little longer, his hand flexing against the back of Bull's neck like he's a cat being petted. The third kiss lingers even longer, and Bull takes a chance, touching Dorian's lower lip with his tongue.

Dorian pulls away and gives him a measuring look. "I thought you weren't trying to start anything."

"I'm not," Bull says, meaning it. "But I'm allowed to like being turned on without wanting to get off."

A pause, then Dorian smiles faintly. "Fair enough."

His mouth touches Bull's again, and the kisses are different this time. Less hesitant without being rougher. Dorian's tongue traces his lips, inside and out, sliding against Bull's tongue in slow, easy movements while his hand strokes Bull's scalp, which isn't quite as smooth as it was this morning. Bull wraps his hand around Dorian's leg and lets him control whether each kiss is a quick peck or something more sensual.

Eventually Dorian pulls away enough to rest his forehead against Bull's. His eyes are still closed, and his mouth is red and wet. There's a part of Bull that's providing a slideshow of all the things Dorian could be doing with those lips, but for tonight, he's content with nothing more than this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to _Secretary_ and _Fifty Shades of Grey_ is a nod to [this blog post](http://www.ohjoysextoy.com/secretaryand50shades/). The site is wildly NSFW, just FYI.


	26. All the Way to Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to lose all your demons and go  
> I want to tear off your chains 'cause I know
> 
> All the way to heaven is heaven  
> Caught between the spirit and the dust  
> All the way to heaven is heaven  
> Deep inside of us
> 
> Melissa Etheridge, "All the Way to Heaven"
> 
> **************************************************************
> 
> Okay, it's confession time: I've written myself into a corner. I think I can mostly get myself out of it by extending the story's internal timeline, but I'm going to have to go back and edit earlier chapters. I won't do that until I've actually finished the whole thing, so for now...nobody think too hard about how much time has passed in the story.
> 
> Actually, nobody think too hard about how much time is passing, period.
> 
> And yes, several people have already pointed out to me that I'm almost certainly the only person who cares, but...*shrug*...I do care. I feel like I should be able to get myself out of this, but I've been trying for three months without success, so now I handwave. Ahhhh, ret-conning.
> 
> Anyway, authorial abasement is now complete. Have a new chapter! The next one is on its second draft and should be finalized soon, and the first draft on the one after that is also done.

Dorian doesn't sleep very well, and he's awake a couple of minutes before Bull's alarm goes off at quarter to four. There's no point trying to fall back asleep, though technically he doesn't have to get up for almost another three hours. His heart is already beating a little too fast, and his stomach turns over at the memory of last night's argument. Or does it count as two arguments, even if they were about the same topic?

It's not a question Dorian wants to spend much time thinking about, but lying in bed in the dark doesn't give him a lot of distractions to choose from. Behind him, Bull's breathing is steady, if a little louder than usual from lying on his back. At least he didn't snore, or if he did, it was during one of the few times where Dorian was asleep.

Watching the numbers on the clock tick steadily closer to the time Bull's alarm will go off, Dorian decides that the waiting is the worst part. How will Bull act this morning? After two years with Rilienus, Dorian has so many possibilities to choose from. It doesn't matter that Bull isn't Rilienus, not right now. Dorian is tired, and anxious, and no matter how many times he reminds himself that Bull is different, the fear is crowding in close. The only thing that keeps him from true panic is a memory from Tuesday's lunch: Bull shrugging off the question of the parking, apparently unaware of all the other ways he might have reacted.

The alarm goes off just as Dorian is beginning to wonder if he somehow missed it, and Bull wakes with a snort. He gets the alarm off fast and begins to ease himself carefully out of bed, and Dorian decides he'd rather get this over with.

"I'm awake," he says. Quietly, so as not to startle Bull. "I've been awake for a couple minutes."

"Going back to sleep?" Bull asks.

"Still deciding," he says, as if sleep is an option when he's wound this tight.

Bull is quiet for a second, and when he speaks again, he sounds embarrassed. "If you're not, what are the chances I could get a hand?"

Surprised, Dorian rolls over to squint at the dark shadow in the bed beside him. "A hand?"

"Yeah," Bull says. "I probably shouldn't wear the same shirt I wore yesterday, but changing it is going to be a bitch."

He sounds a little embarrassed, a lot amused, and nothing at all like Rilienus. Dorian takes a slow, deep breath, careful to keep it quiet so Bull won't hear, then says, "Of course."

Getting Bull out of his t-shirt requires enough effort that Dorian doesn't give him a chance to argue before climbing into the shower with him. Either last night's argument actually accomplished something, or Bull is in too much pain to debate the matter, but he doesn't do anything other than smile when Dorian pulls the shower door shut behind himself.

"I did promise to wash your back for you," Dorian says, and he's relieved when Bull laughs.

"This wasn't quite what I had in mind," Bull says, moving carefully to stand under the shower spray. "But hey, it works. Anything to get you naked."

"I'll keep that in mind," Dorian says. Now that he's fully awake, it's easier to shove the anxiety back in its box, but it's still trembling in his fingertips as he reaches for the soap.

Bull catches his hand, turning it over to stroke a thumb across his palm. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Dorian says, as if it's true.

"You're fine?" Bull asks, a pointed reminder of his own lie last night. Dorian winces.

"I don't like arguing, all right?" Too loudly. The words echo a little in the tiled shower stall.

"Most people don't," Bull says gently.

Dorian looks down at their hands, at the way his fingers have curled around Bull's thumb without any conscious decision on his part, and he swallows. He thinks about trying to explain Rilienus to Bull, more than he already has: about the freeze-outs that were a hundred times worse than any furious shouting, or about his own frantic attempts to find the right combination of words and gifts and actions that would smooth over a disagreement. How does he even begin to explain what it was like to step lightly after any argument, no matter how minor, as he waited to see whether it would pass quickly or turn into days of silence?

It's mortifying to realize how deeply Rilienus pulled him in, how pathetic he was for allowing himself to be pulled in. Bull isn't Rilienus, but Dorian still doesn't want to lay out any more of his past than he already has. Not now. Later, when he's had a chance to prove to Bull that he isn't someone to be pitied.

At least he has the choice. That's one thing he can trust Bull to do for him, to give him the space and the freedom to decide on his own when he wants to talk about it.

"Will you do me a favor?" Dorian asks. He can't bring himself to meet Bull's gaze, but he turns his hand to lace his fingers between Bull's.

"Chances are good," Bull says. He shifts so he's no longer blocking the shower heads, and it isn't until the spray of water hits him that Dorian realizes he's shivering.

He lets the heat soak into him for a moment before taking a deep breath of the warm, moist air. "If I agree that I'm not fine, will you trust me when I say that I will be, and let it go?"

Bull hesitates so long that Dorian finally looks up, but it doesn't help: Bull's face is unreadable, with a furrow between his eyebrows that could mean anything.

"Please?" he adds.

Bull tugs gently on his hand, pulling him in close enough for a careful hug. "Will you tell me about it later?"

"Eventually," Dorian says, because it's the best he can offer right now. "I just need you to let it go for now."

Bull's arms tighten, but all he says is, "Okay."

Agreement or not, he doesn't step back from the hug, and eventually it's Dorian who has to say, "We're going to be late for work."

"Yeah," Bull agrees, but he holds on a second longer, and when he does let go, he presses a kiss to Dorian's forehead first.

It helps a little and being able to touch him helps more, even if the touches are for something as mundane as showering. It's an excuse to be close, to have Bull's skin under his hands, to remind himself that this isn't Rilienus and Bull isn't going to freeze him out.

He has plenty of opportunities to touch, too, because it turns out that shaving someone else isn't nearly as easy as shaving himself. There's a lot to shave, too, since Bull's scalp needs the same attention as his throat and cheeks, and by the time they're done, Dorian has shaving cream up to his elbows and dabbed on his chin.

Bull wipes that off before pinching his chin between thumb and forefinger to pull him in for a quick kiss. "I'm surprised the hot water hasn't run out," he says with a smile.

"Why do you think I love my house?" Dorian says, smiling against his mouth.

"I'm a convert," Bull says.

"I'm very persuasive," Dorian says, relaxed at last.

Relaxed enough that when they get out of the shower, he takes his time getting Bull dressed, stealing opportunities to kiss him or touch him, needing the smiles Bull gives him each time. Their earlier conversation flashes through his head once or twice, but it's easy to ignore. Someday. He'll tell Bull about it someday. It doesn't have to be today.

###

Bull mulls over that conversation as Dorian helps him get dressed and makes him breakfast, and about the only decision he's made by the time he's done eating is that the whole thing is a wreck. He thinks that the part he hates most is the uncertainty, and he hates it because he's not used to it. If he knew for sure that Dorian was talking about his relationship with Rilienus, then now would probably be a good time to bring up his conversation with Max. But what if there's something else, something Max either doesn't know or didn't choose to share? And even if Dorian is thinking about Rilienus, is now really the time, with the last argument so fresh in both their minds?

Fuck, he hates this kind of indecision, and he doesn't usually let himself get trapped in it. Dorian just has him all turned around, and his back still aches, so in the end, he makes the decision by default, by saying nothing. It eats at him throughout the day, though, and it doesn't make it any easier to sleep that night, alone in his own bed.

And why does that feel lonely now? Thursdays are his late night, the one night he always sleeps by himself at home, but it's not like they're the _only_ night that happens. Sometimes schedules don't line up, and it's not like he needs to see Dorian every single night. Besides, maybe a day apart will help him sort through the shit in his head. Getting caught in indecision like this might not be deadly anymore, but that doesn't mean it helps anything.

By Friday morning, he still hasn't made up his mind. He texts Dorian anyway, hoping they can get a late dinner, and is irrationally disappointed when it turns out that Dorian already has plans.

"We're taking some clients to dinner," Dorian says apologetically when he calls. "I don't expect to be done before eleven. Tomorrow night, though?"

"Sure," Bull says, because what else can he say? It isn't unreasonable for Dorian to have a life outside their relationship, and to have plans that can't be dropped on twelve hours' notice. It would be a bigger problem if he did cancel, really, and the fact that Bull's skin feels itchy and tight isn't actually Dorian's fault.

"Edric's wife will be there," Dorian says, apropos of nothing. "And Ellana will likely bring her boyfriend."

"Sounds fun," Bull says, and it isn't until they're off the phone that it dawns on him what Dorian was hinting at: that Bull could come with him. Except not, because Bull doesn't own anything he can wear to a restaurant where the menus don't have prices.

He's reminded of Dorian's offer to buy him a suit, and he weighs his phone in his hand like he's weighing his options. Letting Dorian drop a thousand dollars on him makes him twitch, and yet...

"Everything okay, Chief?" Krem asks, startling him.

"Yeah," Bull says, tossing his phone onto his desk. "Fine."

Krem makes a skeptical noise and plops down in the visitor's chair. "Because you definitely look fine. What's up?"

Bull hesitates, and fuck, he's getting tired of dithering about every damn thing. That more than anything is what pushes him to say, "Dorian's got this work thing he wants me to go to with him."

"Okay," Krem says neutrally. "And you don't want to go?"

"Nah, I don't mind. I mean, it's not my first choice for how to spend an evening, but..." He thinks for a second, trying to find the right words. "Dorian'll be there, and it will make him happy, so what the hell, right?"

"He wants you to go, and you want to go," Krem says carefully. "So what's the issue?"

"I'd need a new suit," Bull says. Krem scowls, but before he can say anything, Bull adds, "Dorian's already offered to pay for it."

"Ahhh," Krem says, like everything's suddenly making sense. "That's a fucking expensive present."

"Exactly."

"You think he's trying to pay you off, or buy your...your affection, or whatever?"

"Nah." That part's easy. It's just the rest of it that's hard.

While he's still thinking about it, Krem holds up one hand and begins ticking points off on his fingers. "He wants you to go." One finger. "You want to go." A second finger starts to join the first, then Krem hesitates and changes his previous statement to, "Or at least, you don't mind going." He waits for Bull's nod before continuing, "You need a suit, which he'll buy, without holding it over your head later." A third finger. "And he can definitely afford it." The fourth finger goes up and Krem wiggles them at Bull. "Tell me what the problem is, again?"

Hearing Krem spell it out like that, Bull can feel his thoughts settling into place, and he laughs a little. "Okay, fine, you're right. There isn't a problem." Or at least, the suit isn't a problem, and Krem can't really help him with the others unless he wants to betray Dorian's confidences.

Krem nods once, firmly, and climbs back to his feet. "I'm glad we had this little talk," he says with mock seriousness.

"Get out, you," Bull says, finding a pen to throw at him. "Go clean some weight benches or something."

"Yes, sir!" Krem says with a snappy salute that makes Bull laugh, and he's still laughing as he picks up his phone to text Dorian: _So is that offer of a suit still available? Because I hear there's a party at an aquarium I might want to go to._

###

Dorian supposes he could have Minaeve make the appointment to have Bull measured for the suit, but it pleases him to call Armando himself, even if he does have to squeeze it in between two meetings while he inhales half a sandwich. He resists the urge to spell out all the details of exactly what he wants--Bull deserves to have a say in something he's going to end up wearing--which gets him off the phone in less than five minutes.

Bull's willingness to go along thrills him. After all the tension of the last few days, this feels like a promise: Bull wouldn't have agreed if he wasn't planning on staying. Beyond that, Bull's presence would make any number of events more bearable, someone besides Max that Dorian doesn't need to be on guard around. He loves the work he does, the hours spent digging for scraps of information to weave into an answer other people will understand, but he'd be just as happy to skip the endless meetings with clients. Important as it is to bring in new business, he can't help but feel like his time would be better spent here, in his office.

The knowledge that maybe Bull could be with him next time gets him through the evening's dinner with a smile, a smile that lasts until Saturday morning. He's getting ready for work, his mind already on the S-8 he needs to review, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Bull rarely calls, but Dorian still finds himself expecting to see Bull's name on the screen, warmth starting to build in his chest.

Only to be drowned in a rush of ice when he sees his mother's name instead of Bull's. He freezes, inside and out, watching the screen flash until the call rolls to voicemail and the phone goes dark again.

It takes him almost five minutes to brace himself enough to listen to the message, and then another five minutes before he can do anything except stare at his phone. Lunch? She wants to do lunch? Just the two of them. Today.

The way Dorian feels right now, he may never eat anything again.

Max will be absolutely no help in this situation, so Dorian paces his living room instead. Maybe if he walks enough laps around the couch, his heart will stop racing and he can actually think through the tangle of emotions she's stirred up. He tries texting Bull, but he can't say he's surprised when he doesn't get a response. Saturday mornings are likely busy, and while he could call, knowing Bull would come if he asked, he can't bring himself to do it. He's tired of disrupting Bull's life because of his parents.

He's tired of disrupting his own life because of them.

His mother's cool, crisp voice echoes in his head, the same voice she's used on him since he walked out of his parents' house all those years ago. That imaginary voice holds no hint of warmth or laughter or pride, all the things he remembers from his childhood as she celebrated each triumph or comforted him after each failure.

For the first time, it hits him that he'll never hear his father's voice again, in any form, and it almost doubles him over. He stumbles, bracing himself against the back of the couch as he tries to force air into lungs that have forgotten what they're supposed to be doing. The last words they said to each other are set in stone now, never to be unsaid or overwritten by anything gentler.

_"You are no son of mine."_

_"Why would I want to be?"_

Dorian bends to rest his forehead on the back of the couch between his hands, his eyes burning. He's not sure which is stronger, the grief or the anger, but the two together are making him sick. Fuck Halward, and fuck Aquinea, and fuck their judgments of his life, past and present.

Except it's not that easy, not anymore. He made it easy on himself for years by ignoring them, by shutting them out of his life so completely that half the people he knows likely think he's an orphan. After the funeral, he'd planned to do that again, right up until his mother decided she needed to host a birthday party for him.

Part of him wants to go back to that plan, to delete her message and block her number and pretend she doesn't exist. At the same time, another part of him remembers too much of the time when he was their golden child. For each hateful word they said to each other later, there are a dozen celebrating his accomplishments, telling him how proud they were, how much they loved him.

Dorian's forearms ache from gripping the couch cushions so hard, but he can't make himself let go. Somehow, in telling Bull about the worst thing they did to him, he's managed to stir up older memories, too. Things he doesn't want to remember, because if he does, then he has to remember that he's lost them forever.

Maybe it would be easier if they really were lost forever, if he didn't hear his mother's voice and feel like he was being offered another chance to go back to what they had before. It's stupid, and he knows it, and knowing it doesn't make a fucking bit of difference.

###

Glad as Bull is to resolve the question of whether he'll let Dorian buy him a suit, it doesn't do much about the other issue: the conversation with Max that's started to feel like a secret even though Bull never meant it to be one. It's drifted from center stage in his head, but it still creeps out occasionally, taunting him with his own inability to come to a decision.

The whole thing just feels so fraught, because as much as Max told him, Bull is coming to realize that there are landmines he still doesn't know about. He's only known Dorian a few months, and it's hard to predict whether he's better off addressing this or leaving it alone. His mother used to say, "Least said, soonest mended," after all. Maybe he should just forget about it and move on.

Saturday morning is busy enough that he doesn't have time to think about anything except whether one appointment is going to run over and make him late for the next. He doesn't even have time to check his phone until after twelve, but when he does, his stomach drops, that conversation with Max no longer the first thing on his mind.

He has three texts from Dorian. The first, from just after nine, says, _My mother called and wants me to meet her for lunch._

The next came ten minutes later: _And of course she wants to do it today._

And the third, the one that makes Bull's hand squeeze tight around his phone, from thirty minutes after that: _I told her yes._

Fuck.

Bull tries calling him, but it rolls straight to voicemail, and he doesn't bother leaving a message. Instead, he taps out a cautious, _What time?_

There's no immediate answer, and Bull has a sneaking suspicion that Dorian is already there, trading barbs with his mother over bone china and artfully arranged food.

He feels equally guilty and defensive, and he does his best to kill both as he goes out to meet his next appointment. It's not as if he was deliberately ignoring Dorian, after all, so why should he feel guilty? And since Dorian hasn't accused him of anything, defensiveness is a little premature.

Logic doesn't make much of a dent in either emotion, unfortunately, and it doesn't help that Dorian still hasn't texted or called by the time Bull is finished with his twelve-thirty appointment. Nothing before his one-thirty appointment arrives, and still nothing when he gets back to his office at a little after two.

At quarter to three, Bull's phone rings, and he grabs for it so fast he almost knocks it off the desk. It's Dorian, thank god, and Bull reminds himself not to bark into the phone when he answers it. "Hey," he says cautiously, instead of his usual brusque "h'lo."

"Hey," Dorian says. There's no reading him from that one word.

"How was lunch?" Bull asks.

"About as you might expect." He sighs. "More fun than poking myself in the eye with a sharp stick, but not by much."

"Anything I can do?"

The silence is long enough that Bull has to bite his tongue to keep from breaking it, but eventually Dorian says, "Would it be a problem if I came by the gym? I promise to stay out of your way, but I...I'd like some company."

That it's not intended as a guilt trip only makes Bull feel worse. "Yeah, sure, no problem," he says, so fast the words blur together. "Absolutely. You've got the address?"

"I do," Dorian says. He coughs, an embarrassed sound Bull can't figure out until he adds, "I'll see you in about thirty seconds then."

"Are you in the parking lot?" Bull asks, getting up from his desk to peer out the front windows.

"Ah, yes, actually," Dorian says, sounding embarrassed. Sure enough, there's Dorian's BMW, and Dorian himself behind the wheel. He waves in Bull's direction and adds brightly, "So...see you shortly?"

"Yeah," Bull says. He stands there a second after Dorian disconnects, the phone still against his ear as he tries to process all the implications of that conversation.

He still hasn't quite managed it by the time Dorian comes through the door, but he has picked out what he thinks is the most important piece. Not that he says anything immediately: he lets Dorian and Krem greet each other warily, then ushers Dorian back to his office, taking his laptop bag away from him to set it in the visitor's chair. Only once the door is closed behind them does he take Dorian's chin in his hands and ask gently, "Did you really think I'd say no?"

"I hoped you wouldn't," Dorian says. He closes his eyes and leans into Bull's hands. "But I didn't know how busy you were today."

"Not that busy," Bull says. "Never that busy." The fact that Dorian isn't trying to make him feel guilty is only succeeding in making him feel guiltier, and he says, "I'm sorry I missed your messages earlier."

"It's fine," Dorian says without opening his eyes. "I don't expect you to be at my beck and call, you know."

"I wish I'd seen them," Bull says.

"There's nothing you could have done." His eyes are still shut, his weight still leaning into Bull's hands. "And this helps. This helps a lot."

Bull kisses him once, lightly. "Well, if I'd gotten your messages earlier, at least you wouldn't have had to call me from the parking lot."

Dorian smiles. "And miss the chance to surprise you? How could I resist?" He finally opens his eyes, blinking a little when he realizes how close Bull is. "But I meant it about not getting in your way. I have my laptop and my phone, and god knows plenty to work on. If it's all right with you, I can just stay in here and work."

"You can set up wherever you want," Bull says, letting go of him reluctantly.

That turns out to be the visitor's chair in Bull's office, even though there's barely enough room to sit comfortably. Dorian doesn't seem to mind: he lays his papers out on one corner of Bull's desk, cracks open his laptop, and gets to work with a frown of concentration. Bull suspects he's using work as a way to avoid thinking about his mother, but if he doesn't want to talk about it, Bull isn't going to make him.

Most of Bull's afternoon is booked, but he sticks his head into his office when he can. Dorian looks content enough, the tension bleeding away with the afternoon, and by the time Bull has a break at six, Dorian looks almost relaxed.

He leans back as Bull sits down at the desk, stretching his arms over his head until his joints pop. Even fully clothes, it's a nice view, and Bull doesn't bother to hide his admiration.

Dorian catches him at it and smiles slyly. "I believe the first time I was here, you raised the possibility of doing something more interesting than work."

It takes Bull a second to catch up to the conversation, and then he laughs. "Soon as you shut that door, Krem's going to know something's up in here. Just saying."

"It's all in the proper planning," Dorian says. By the look in his eye, he's taking Bull's words as a challenge, and Bull can't help but be a little turned on by it.

He's a lot more turned on when Dorian reaches out with his foot to kick the door closed. "What, _now_?" Bull asks.

"Of course not," Dorian says, as if should be obvious. "But I think I find that I work better with the door closed. And I think maybe I should visit more often. I can work here as easily as I can at home on the weekends."

"So you're going to come over here every Saturday and Sunday, and work in my office with the door shut?" Bull asks, amused.

"Assuming that's all right with you," Dorian says, looking hesitant for the first time.

"Long as you don't mind that I'll be out there more than in here."

"Well, you'll be in here some of the time," Dorian says. "And I assume that you'll be willing to defer to my preference for a closed door."

"Of course," Bull says solemnly. "Wouldn't want to disrupt your work."

Dorian looks up from his laptop long enough to flash him a grin. "And if one afternoon you just happened to be bored, and the door just happens to be shut, well. Who knows what might happen?"

"Who knows?" Bull agrees.

"In the meantime," Dorian says, hands coming up to touch the sides of the laptop screen, "you'll just have to wait and wonder when it might happen." While Bull is still trying to decide on an answer to that, Dorian closes his laptop with a satisfied smirk and says brightly, "So. Dinner?"

###

Dorian walks down to the coffee shop and gets them both sandwiches, calmer than he's been all day. When he gets back to Bull's office, Bull is working at his own computer, but he looks up and smiles as Dorian sets down a sandwich beside him. "Thanks." His smile widens when Dorian swings the door closed, but he doesn't say anything.

Dorian takes the visitor's chair again, unwrapping his own sandwich with slow deliberation. Bull's office is surprisingly peaceful; not quiet exactly, not with the sound of weights and treadmills from the other side of the wall, but definitely peaceful. It makes it easier to say, "Lunch with my mother was interesting."

Bull goes completely still, the wrapper on his sandwich half open. "Oh?"

"I don't think she wanted to be there any more than I did," he says. "And yet, there we both were."

"And yet," Bull repeats. He finishes extracting his sandwich but doesn't take a bite. "Did she want something?"

"Just to have lunch, or so she said."

"You don't believe her?"

Dorian doesn't know what to believe, or even what he wants. Is it better if the invitation to lunch was the opening move in some new attempt to manipulate him into being what she wants, or if it really was nothing more than it seemed, just an honest desire to spend time with him? "Either way," he says at last, "it certainly gave new meaning to 'awkward.'"

Bull smiles, and Dorian could kiss him for that. An afternoon spent working, with only Bull's occasional company, has eased the tightness in his chest that's been there since he first heard his mother's voicemail. For a little while, it had felt like the only things that would vent that tension were screaming or crying. He won't do the first, and he's sick of doing the latter, and he'd wondered if his only choice was to cram all of it back down, the way he has so many times in the past.

But this--Bull smiling at him in this quiet space where it's just the two of them--this is what he needed, what he'd hoped for when he'd driven over here instead of calling Max.

"It was strange," he says, picking up one half of his sandwich and turning it so the crustless edge is closest to him. "She's always been the consummate politician, always the one person who was never caught without something to say."

He pauses to take a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly, and Bull mirrors him, eating his own sandwich without prodding Dorian to finish his thought. For a second, Dorian contemplates the differences between this meal and lunch--from the food to the company to the mood--and he shakes his head.

"I used to think of her as having a PhD in conversations," he says when he's swallowed, "because it was just effortless for her. I've seen her switch from economics to high fashion without blinking, and I've never seen her let a silence become uncomfortable unless it was a deliberate choice on her part."

He remembers watching her: as a young child, from the top landing of the stairs looking down on the front hallway, and later, standing beside her to greet guests while she taught him what to say and when to say it, how to use tone and expression and the subtle distinctions of language to move people in the direction he wanted. Skills that have served him well as an attorney, though he's now aware of the darker side to them, in a way he wasn't at ten years old.

Across the desk, Bull eats methodically, watching him without staring, apparently content to let any pauses last as long as Dorian wants.

"Except today was different." Dorian takes a small bite of his sandwich and adds, "I think she was as uncomfortable as I was."

"Fun times for everybody," Bull says.

"Whee," Dorian says flatly, but he smiles when Bull does. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling."

"Nah," Bull says. "Talking isn't rambling."

"It is when I don't have a point. And I don't know that I really do have one. It was just...strange, that's all." He picks a sunflower seed off the crust of his sandwich and eats it, crunching it carefully between his teeth. "As you said: fun times for everybody. But enough about my mother, because god knows, she's already taken up too much of my day. How's your back?"

Bull blinks, clearly startled. "My back?"

"Your back," Dorian repeats patiently, resisting the urge to add, "Yes, you know, that part of your body that recently hurt so much you couldn't take off your shirt?"

"It's better," Bull says, straightening up to bend at the waist, right and then left. It might be slightly more convincing if he didn't wince at the far limits of the last stretch, but at least he can move. He catches sight of Dorian's expression and shrugs. "Okay, it's not perfect, but it is better."

"I could rub it for you." It isn't until Bull grins that Dorian realizes how that could sound, and he rolls his eyes. "You know what I meant."

"Yeah, I did," Bull agrees, still grinning.

"So...?" Dorian asks when he doesn't go on. Despite the earlier teasing, he's not particularly interested in sex, but he wants skin contact of whatever kind he can get. Then he remembers that technically, Bull is still at work, even if he doesn't have to answer to anyone except himself. "Unless you have something else you need to do right now."

He can watch Bull weigh it in his head, and he suspects he knows most of what's going into that calculation: Bull's resistance to accepting help, weighed against his promise to try to do better, mixed in with Bull's assessment of whether letting Dorian help him would help Dorian.

The last part makes Dorian grit his teeth, but he's not prepared to re-start that fight, not now. Waiting is hard, but Bull did him that courtesy earlier, and the least he can do is return it.

"If you don't mind," Bull says at last, almost diffident.

Having turned Bull's words around on him once, it only seems fair to do it again. "Wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it."

"You know," Bull says, "I think I heard someone else say that once."

"How strange," Dorian murmurs. "Now, given that this is a gym, do you have something I can use to make this slightly more effective? Biofreeze, by chance?"

"Let me see what I can find," Bull says.

While he's gone, Dorian plays with the desk chair until he figures out how to raise the arms high enough that Bull's legs will fit under them. He's only just finished that when Bull comes back with a small tub of Icy Hot.

"Closest I could get," he says, shutting the door on Krem, who's stretching sideways to try to peer into the office. Dorian swallows a laugh and takes the tub from Bull, unscrewing the lid as Bull takes off his shirt.

Seated backwards in the chair, arms propped on the back, Bull is almost exactly the right height for Dorian to reach everything without bending too far. He just touches at first, exploring the muscles with his fingertips as he searches out the knots, marking them in his head for later. Only once that's done does he pick up the tub and smear both hands liberally.

The smell of menthol and camphor takes over quickly, burning in Dorian's nose as he digs his knuckles into the muscles along Bull's spine. It's hard work, given that the heaviest thing he usually lifts is his laptop bag, but it feels good. Right. Whatever Bull's reasons for agreeing to this, it's something Dorian can do for him, and each knot that gives way is a little victory.

Halfway through, he pauses for more Icy Hot. As he's rubbing it between his palms, standing where Bull can't see him, he says quietly, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not pushing me when I got here. For letting me just take up half your office for an entire afternoon without telling you anything."

"You told me-" He breaks off on a grunt as Dorian sets to work on a knot under his shoulder blade. "You told me enough."

"Still." Dorian stops, releasing the pressure long enough to lean forward and kiss the back of Bull's head, careful to stay well north of where he knows he applied Icy Hot. "Thank you. It means a lot to me."

"Anything for you," Bull says, and as impossible as it feels, Dorian believes him.


	27. I'll Hold Your Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll keep your secrets  
> I'll hold your ground  
> And when the darkness starts to fall  
> I'll be around there waiting  
> When dreams are fading  
> And friends are distant and few  
> Know at that moment I'll be there with you
> 
> Paul O'Neill, "I'll Keep Your Secrets"

On Tuesday, they skip the aquarium in favor of a tiny storefront tucked between a pawn shop and a dive bar, in an area of town Bull didn't think Dorian knew existed. It's not exactly a bad neighborhood, but it's definitely not the best, either.

As Dorian holds the door, he glances at Bull's face and smiles. "Not what you were expecting?"

"Not really," Bull admits. "I figured it would be somewhere trendier."

"Trendy usually means higher rent," Dorian says. "And it's not as if Armando needs to advertise."

The name and the fact that Dorian knows it without having to think are Bull's first clues as to what he's gotten himself into. The next is the inside of the shop itself: there are no racks of suits waiting for him to try one on, no over-eager sales associate waiting to sell him whatever he--or Dorian--can be talked into buying. There's just a handful of suits on display and a little old man who makes Dorian look huge, watching them with an inquisitive expression that transforms into a beaming smile when he sees Dorian.

"Ah, right on time, as ever," the man says, coming forward to shake Dorian's hand with both of his, holding on longer than Bull would expect. It's just a handshake, but there's something almost paternal about the way he pats the back of Dorian's hand before releasing it.

The handshake he offers Bull is more formal, without being cold. "And you must be Mr. Hassrad. So pleased to meet you."

"Nice to meet you," Bull says, a little taken aback. "Mister...?"

"Oh, Armando is fine," he says with an airy wave. "I've known the Pavuses too long to stand on ceremony." Before Bull can answer, Armando claps his hands together briskly. "Now then, Mr. Hassrad-"

"Bull, please." There's no way he's going to be comfortable calling the guy Armando otherwise.

Armando inclines his head in acknowledgement. "Dorian has given me some idea of what you're looking for, but there are a number of details still to be discussed. If you don't mind, I would prefer to take your measurements first, and then we can discuss the options I think would be best for you."

Like Bull's going to argue? "Sure," he says. "No problem."

"Wonderful." Armando eyes him for a moment, lips pursed. "Will you excuse me? My apologies, but I believe I'll need a longer measuring tape."

"Sure," Bull says again, more puzzled than ever. Why is the guy apologizing, like it's somehow his fault Bull is so much larger than the average person?

His absence does give Bull the opportunity to raise an eyebrow at Dorian and say, "You told him about me?"

"When I called to make the appointment," Dorian says absently, as if there's nothing weird about any of this.

That's when it really sinks in, how different their lives are. Oh, Bull knew it, but this time it really clicks into place as something other than a passing observation. More than the way Dorian speaks, more than the too-big house, more than the fancy office: Dorian's casual acceptance of the entire idea of making an appointment to buy clothes is so far beyond Bull's experience that he can barely comprehend it.

He's still working to digest that when Armando comes back with an assistant, a measuring tape, and a step stool. The assistant is a woman in her late thirties, already scribbling furiously on a clipboard as she follows behind Armando, and she glances up at Bull only long enough to give him a once-over before going back to her writing.

Armando unfolds the step stool and gestures Bull forward, giving him a measuring look very similar to the one the woman gave him. Bull suspects the measuring tape is for confirmation only, that Armando could already fit him for a suit without needing the numbers.

Whether it's necessary or not, Armando does measure and thoroughly, calling out numbers to the assistant as he goes. It's a little weird, having someone all over him like this, and the inseam measurement is the weirdest of all. Bull's not used to anyone having their hands that close to his dick unless they have plans to keep heading north.

Fortunately, Armando has more than enough questions to distract from any potential awkwardness. Bull hadn't realized there were so many decisions involved in something where he normally has no options at all: the last time he bought a suit, he picked it because it was the only one in the store that came close to fitting him.

This is a tuxedo, not a suit, and now he has more choices than he knows what to do with: black or midnight blue, peaked lapels or shawl collar, single- or double-breasted, pleated or piqué shirt front. The color of his fucking suspenders-- _suspenders_ \--is even up for discussion, as if anyone's ever going to see them, and he's going to have to google how to tie a bowtie.

"I can do that part for you," Dorian says, "and help you take it off again after." His smile is sly, until Armando tsk's disapprovingly and Dorian forces his face into something almost serious. The smile is still there in the corners of his eyes, though.

It's a dizzying number of choices, and Bull now understands why Dorian laughed at the suggestion they'd be done in twenty minutes. At least Armando is a master of expressing his opinion without actually saying anything out loud, and Dorian has plenty of opinions of his own that he's significantly less subtle about expressing, which means Bull mostly just has to nod and go along. The only time he expresses a firm opinion is to vote for a shawl collar instead of the peaked lapels.

When Dorian asks about it, Bull grins. "It's what James Bond wears. I can feel like a secret agent."

Armando coughs into his fist, but Bull sees the edges of a smile before it's hidden behind the mask of professionalism, and the assistant can't quite stop a snort of laughter. "An excellent choice," Armando says, and then they're off into more decisions.

It's not just the tux itself. There are the obvious additions like the shirt and the bowtie, but beyond the suspenders there are also cufflinks and shirt studs and a waistcoat. He even needs a new pair of shoes. The list grows longer and longer, and the cost higher and higher, and Bull keeps waiting for Dorian to flinch, or blink, or _something_. Not that Bull knows the actual cost of any of this: there's not a price tag to be seen, and neither Dorian nor Armando ever mentions anything so low class as money.

The total has to be well over two thousand dollars by the time they're done, but Dorian looks happy as they leave, so Bull tries not to think about it.

"I should be getting back to work," Dorian says as they approach his car. He's already got his keys in one hand, jingling them loosely. "And I'm sure you have other things to do today."

"Maybe you, later," Bull says.

"Ugh." Despite the noise and the shove he gives Bull's shoulder, he doesn't look unhappy. "If you can refrain from making any more jokes like that, maybe I'll see you this evening."

"Maybe?" Bull asks. He loops his hand carefully around Dorian's tie, reeling him in for a kiss. "Just maybe?"

"Maybe," Dorian says against his mouth. The kiss is light, their lips just brushing, but Bull likes the way it feels, kissing Dorian while they're both smiling.

Before he can try for a longer kiss, Dorian rescues his tie and steps back. "Enjoy your game tonight," he says innocently. "Text me when you're done?"

"Maybe," Bull says.

Dorian laughs as he gets in his car, and Bull's feeling pretty good as he goes off to do his grocery shopping. He smiles at the dairy case and hums his way through the produce aisle and doesn't even care when the woman ahead of him in line has an entire stack of coupons, half of them expired. She writes a check, too, waiting until the clerk has finished ringing her up before she even pulls out the checkbook, and Bull just continues to smile. He's got hours before he's due anywhere, so what's a couple extra minutes?

At the park that afternoon, Krem takes one look at his face and smiles. There's something wrong with the smile, tense and strained at the edges, but when Bull asks, Krem waves it away. "I'm good, Chief, just a weird day."

The odd looks continue as they play, the others casting quick glances at Krem like they're waiting for him to give them some secret signal. Krem shrugs when Bull asks, and the looks stop as the game wears on, so Bull forgets about it and just enjoys himself. It's a good end to a good day, and if he's lucky, it isn't actually the end, all Dorian's "maybe's" aside.

They hit the IHOP across the street after the game, the way they always do. At the doors, Bull waves the rest of them in ahead of him while he stays outside on the sidewalk. He wants to text Dorian that they're about to sit down to eat, which should give him enough time to wrap up whatever he's working on so that he's ready when Bull is.

As he shoves his hand in his pocket for his phone, he realizes that Krem has stopped beside him, the odd look back in force. "You doing okay?" Bull asks, trying to give him an opening to talk about whatever's on his mind.

The look gets odder. "Yeah, no problems here."

Bull waits, but when Krem doesn't say anything else, he shrugs and finishes digging out his phone. "We shouldn't leave those assholes unsupervised for too long."

Krem glances through the restaurant window, his face too tight for someone who keeps insisting he's fine. "I won't let 'em tear the place up, don't worry."

"Well," Bull says, because it's not like he can make Krem talk if he doesn't want to, "I just need to text Dorian, then I'll be right in. Prob'ly won't stay long, but I'll see you tomorrow morning."

His thumb hits the button to turn on his phone right as he realizes that Krem has tensed up even more, and the answering, "Yeah," is a second too long in coming.

Krem's tension collides in his head with the date showing on his phone, and suddenly it all makes too much sense. Pain stabs through his missing eye, ricocheting around in his skull like a rubber ball with spikes.

"Fuck," he mutters without meaning to. The word is entirely inadequate.

"You forgot," Krem says, shocked. "You fucking _forgot_."

"Yeah." He did, and he would never have thought that possible. "I just...there's been so much going on with Dorian, and I just..." He stares at his phone, appalled. "I forgot."

"Fuck," Krem says with feeling. "Fuck, Chief, I'm so sorry, I wouldn't have reminded you, I just figured you were being, you know, _you_. Pretending you're fine when you're not."

Normally that would make Bull laugh, but he's not in a laughing mood anymore. The day shouldn't have snuck up on him like this. Hell, he fucking scheduled the date with Dorian, how did he miss what day it was? Except that when Dorian suggested the trip to the aquarium that became the trip to see Armando, Bull just processed it in his head as "next Tuesday." He'd never bothered to translate that into an actual day.

"You know what?" Bull says slowly. "I think I'm going to head home. You guys can get by without me for one night, and I'm tired."

Krem is chewing on the inside of his lower lip, brows drawn down tightly. "You want me to keep you company?"

"You've got work tomorrow," Bull says, trying to pull himself together.

"Fuck work," Krem says. "Dalish will take my shift, she needs some extra cash anyway."

But Krem needs the money, too. Bull takes a deep, quiet breath in through his nose and locks down everything that doesn't matter. It was two years ago, for fuck's sake. He's alive and mostly whole, with good friends and the beginning of a relationship that's more important to him every day.

"I'm fine." Bull straightens his shoulders, ignoring the pain still stabbing through his missing eye. "Just took me by surprise, that's all."

Krem looks unconvinced. "Really."

"Really," Bull says, smiling at him. "It's not that big a deal this year, I haven't even thought about it before tonight. Last year was just rough 'cause it was the first year."

He hasn't thought about it before tonight, but now his brain seems determined to make up for lost time, packing two weeks' worth of anxiety into one moment. His heart is beating too fast and his skin feels clammy and that phantom pain is still stabbing through his eye, but he's not going to let Krem miss work just because he can't get himself under control. Last year was bad enough, and he's not doing that again.

"Okay, look," Bull says, dredging up every ounce of sincerity he can muster. "Yeah, I'm not happy. Yeah, I wish I'd kept right on forgetting about it." Guilt flashes across Krem's face, and Bull points a finger at him. "Not your fault, so cut it out. I'm not happy, but mostly what I am is tired. I'm gonna go home, and get some sleep, and I'll see you in the morning, okay? Oh-five-hundred hours."

It's not that easy to get rid of him, but Bull keeps his tone light and his smile in place and eventually Krem goes into the restaurant. Without losing his smile, Bull gets in his car and drives home, carefully not thinking about anything except the road in front of him and the other cars around him.

Once the door is shut behind him he lets the smile drop, but he keeps everything else blocked off as he showers and pulls on a t-shirt and sweatpants. His body moves without any direction from his brain, routine tasks he barely realizes he's doing. When he blinks and finds himself on the sofa in the living room, he has absolutely no memory of how he got here.

His phone is in his hand, and he knows he has to text Dorian something, but what can he say? The only options he has are to lie or tell the truth, and he doesn't want to do either. Lies are dangerous for too many reasons to count, and right now, the truth feels equally dangerous.

Time ticks by as he stares at his phone, willing himself to do something, but in the end, he sets the phone on the coffee table and lies down on the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling.

###

Despite the way it began, Dorian's afternoon goes to shit almost as soon as he gets back to the office. He's barely had a chance to glance through his email before the first crisis arrives on his desk, and he's still working on that when the second one does. About the time he's unraveled the first crisis enough to pass it off to Minaeve, it's already five o'clock and he hasn't even touched the other one.

At twenty-two minutes past five, the third crisis appears, and Dorian resigns himself to a late night.

He holds out a faint hope that he can make enough progress to leave when Bull texts, and for a while, he's relieved by every minute that passes without a message from Bull. If Bull isn't done with dinner yet, then Dorian is free to keep right on working. Two months ago, he might very well have pulled an all-nighter for this, but now, he works as fast as he can.

By eight, though, the lack of a message is more worrying than anything, and Dorian finally pulls out his phone. He's nowhere near done, and there's no point pretending that he'll be able to leave when Bull texts.

Telling himself how lucky he is that this is the first time their plans have been interrupted doesn't help his mood. He drums his fingers on his desk a couple times, frowning at his phone as if that will solve the problem and give him another five or so hours. When it doesn't, he finally picks it up and calls.

It rings four times before Bull picks up with his usual brusque, "H'lo."

Dorian winces, but he's getting used to that greeting. "It's Dorian," he says, keeping his tone under tight control. "I know we'd planned to get together tonight, but something's come up at work, and I'm going to be here a while."

The silence on the other end of the phone is way too long, and all the habits Rilienus taught him try to take over. Dorian swallows them back and limits himself to, "Sorry. Maybe tomorrow night?"

"Friday would be better," Bull says. His voice is wrong, but Dorian isn't sure what it means, given that Bull's voice is almost always a little stiff on the phone. "I'm not feeling so great today, and I probably won't be better tomorrow."

Dorian thinks fast, trying to decide how much of crises two and three actually requires him to be in the office. Not much, it turns out. With a little bit of planning, he can work on both issues from anywhere he can get an internet connection.

Rescheduling their date is one thing, but if Bull isn't feeling well, Dorian isn't going to leave him to fend for himself. "I could come over and make you tea," Dorian offers, trying to make a joke. "Bring you pillows and tissues." There's another long silence, and the alarm bells in Dorian's head ring louder. "Or chicken noodle soup?"

Bull makes a doubtful noise, and Dorian almost accepts the brush off. He has a stack of work to do, and Bull is stonewalling him even more than when his back hurt, and he really doesn't want to start another fight. The last time he pushed, Bull pushed back hard.

But Bull also promised to do better, and so Dorian ignores the sick feeling in his stomach and says, as calmly as he can, "What's wrong?"

This time, the silence on the other end of the phone goes on for so long that Dorian has to bite his tongue on a retraction, or an apology, or anything to avoid that creeping quiet.

When Bull speaks again, his voice makes his usual phone mannerisms seem effusive. "I lost my eye two years ago."

Dorian knew the rough timeframe, and he almost prompts Bull with, "And...?" before his brain catches up. "Two years ago today?"

"Tomorrow, but yes."

There are a lot of things Dorian could say to that, none of them helpful.

"Look," Bull says, and he's back to professional. As warm as he ever gets on the phone, but Dorian can hear the strain under it. "I'm not gonna be very good company for the next couple days, so why don't we put the plans on hold until Friday?"

"I'm good enough company for both of us," Dorian says, with a cheerful confidence at odds with the knots in his stomach.

"Dorian, I'm not...I can't give you what you want tonight."

"How do you know what I want?" Dorian asks, then hurries on before Bull can answer. "I'll bring a couple movies, and make you dinner, and we can spend the evening mocking terrible special effects."

"You don't have to do that," Bull says.

"I'm aware," Dorian says. His voice has gone clipped, but he can't help it. He _hates_ fighting. "But I'd still like to at least get you something to eat."

"Do you even know how to make anything except French toast?" Bull asks, and at last there's a trace of amusement in his voice.

"Is there something wrong with French toast for dinner?" Dorian retorts in mock offense.

There's another pause, then Bull says, very quietly, "Not if you're making it," and Dorian closes his eyes for a second.

"Then that's settled," Dorian says firmly, without opening his eyes. "I'll be over in less than an hour."

"I thought you had to work late tonight," Bull says.

"It can wait until tomorrow." Or he can bring it with him. He can work from Bull's house as easily as he can work here.

"Dorian..."

"Bull..."

A long sigh comes through the phone, a sigh that sounds remarkably like surrender. "See you in an hour," Bull says.

###

It takes Dorian forty-five minutes to get everything he needs and get to Bull's house, and it's almost nine when he rings the doorbell. The house is dark, and there's no sound for long enough that Dorian begins to get nervous, but then the door opens and Bull is standing there in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped out.

"All appearances to the contrary," Dorian says when Bull doesn't step aside, "I'm not actually moving in." The movies and the ingredients for dinner would be bad enough, but with a change of clothes, his laptop, and the papers he's brought home from work added in, Dorian's sure he's doing an excellent impression of a Sherpa.

Bull's expression doesn't change for a second, and Dorian wonders if he's put his foot in it. Just as he opens his mouth to apologize, Bull shakes his head and smiles faintly. "I'm pretty sure I had less gear than that the last time I deployed." His voice is softer than usual, as if he's too tired to even bring it up to the normal range.

"Oh, you know us wilting hothouse flowers," Dorian says airily, determined to keep the mood light, "we need our creature comforts."

"Of course," Bull says, and at last he moves, reaching out to take several of the bags from Dorian. He grunts as the weight shifts and looks down at the messenger bag. "I thought you were bringing movies, not your brick collection."

Dorian snaps his fingers as if Bull's reminded him of something. "I knew I was doing something wrong," he says. "Ah well. We'll just have to make do."

That gets him another almost smile, though it does nothing to erase the lines of tension in Bull's face. "I'm sure you'll think of something," Bull says.

Inside the house, Dorian lets Bull take his overnight bag into the bedroom while he hauls everything else in the other direction, leaving a trail of bags in his wake: movies in the living room, messenger bag on the kitchen table, and grocery bags on the counter while he pokes around the kitchen for what he needs.

By the time Bull comes back, Dorian has located skillet, spatula, and mixing bowl and is opening drawers in search of a whisk. Without saying anything, Bull points him in the right direction and then props one shoulder against the door frame to watch him work. It gives Dorian serious performance anxiety, but since he can't exactly banish the man from his own kitchen, he sucks it up and tries to pretend that the air around Bull doesn't feel pressurized and ready to blow.

He manages not to burn the first slice, thank god, or drop it on the floor as he tips it out of the pan. Bull even accepts the plate without a murmur of protest, and Dorian has about a minute in which he thinks maybe this won't be so hard. But by the time the second slice is done cooking, Bull is still leaning against the counter staring at his food, as if it will magically get from the plate to his stomach if he just looks at it long enough.

As he dumps his own slice onto a plate, Dorian tries to decide what to do. Is it better to let Bull alone, on the assumption that a couple missed meals won't hurt him? Or should Dorian push the issue on the assumption that while it won't hurt him, it also can't be good for him? In the best of circumstances, Dorian's seen otherwise rational adults reduced to behavior that would embarrass a two-year-old, simply because they were hungry. If Bull hasn't eaten dinner, after a long day and a hard game...

Dorian grabs the syrup and drowns his French toast in it though normally he foregoes anything except butter. Then, with the edge of his fork, he cuts off a bite and holds it out to Bull, who looks at him expressionlessly. For a second, Dorian is tempted to make some smart-assed comment--"I know my cooking isn't that bad" or maybe "I refuse to make airplane noises"--but there's a line between lightening the mood and making light of Bull's pain. None of the jokes he can think of at the moment are on the right side of that line.

But if he doesn't have jokes, what does he have?

The answer hits him almost before he's asked himself the question, and he digs down for the confidence he wraps around himself at work. Not the face he wears for asshole clients and attorneys for the opposing side, but the one he wears on a normal day. The one he remembers mirrored on the face of a tiny female Dom. He's watched that video at least a dozen times, though he has no interest in women, and he likes to think he's figured her out.

When he meets Bull's eye again, Dorian makes sure everything about him exudes confidence. That Bull will eat because Dorian expects him to eat.

Whatever emotion crosses Bull's face is there and gone too fast to identify, but he leans down and takes the bite of French toast from the fork. He chews slowly, his eye fixed on the floor, and Dorian cuts himself a bite just so he has something to swallow to force down the tightness in his throat. He doesn't even know if he's doing the right thing. Bull wanted to be left alone, after all; is Dorian making it worse by being here, by pushing at him when his memories are likely pushing at him from the inside?

Short of asking Bull, who isn't the most reliable witness at the moment, there's no way to know, so Dorian just cuts off another bite and holds it out, still wearing the expression that denies even the possibility of argument.

They finish three slices that way, Dorian feeding both of them, and while Bull doesn't exactly relax, he doesn't move away, either. He does make a small headshake when Dorian goes to drop a fourth slice into the pan, so Dorian turns off the stove and begins cleaning up. It doesn't take long, and when he's done, Bull is still leaning against the counter, hands gripping the edge on either side of himself.

"Go into the living room," Dorian says, "and sit on the sofa." The tone is hard to get right, firm without being hard, and he wonders if it comes out too harsh.

Bull's face doesn't give any clues, but he pushes himself off the counter and leaves the kitchen. As soon as he's out of sight, Dorian sags back against the wall and puts both hands over his face. The last thing he wants is to hurt Bull, but surely sitting and staring at the wall isn't good for him, either.

No way to know, so Dorian breathes deep and gathers that confidence back around himself. Freezing up definitely won't help, and since he can't ask Bull, the only thing he can do is trust his instincts.

The same instincts that allowed him to fall for Rilienus.

That does absolutely nothing for his confidence, so Dorian sets it aside along with everything else.

When he gets to the living room, Bull is sitting on the sofa, watching the doorway into the kitchen, and Dorian is very glad he took that moment to compose himself before coming out here. Bull's gaze is too intent, and there's an expectant silence in the room, centered on Dorian. The weight of it presses in on him, that he's solely responsible for both of them. It's terrifying, but it's also a challenge, and Dorian has always loved a challenge.

There's something rising up under the terror that Dorian can't identify. It isn't excitement or desire, not when he's still so worried about Bull, but for the first time since he walked through the door, Dorian feels like he's actually in control rather than just playing at it.

After a moment's thought to word the question properly, Dorian asks, "Who can cover your shift tomorrow?" Not, "Can someone cover your shift?" or "Will you be able to go to work tomorrow?"

Bull thinks in silence, his face blank, and Dorian takes a tight grip on the confidence that's carried him this far. He wants everything about him to demand an honest answer, and eventually Bull says, "Krem."

"Text him," Dorian says immediately, not giving Bull the chance to add any qualifiers. "Tell him you won't be in."

This time, Bull isn't thinking; he's hesitating, clearly considering an argument or outright refusal. Dorian stares him down, cocking his head slightly as if to say, "Are you really about to disobey me?"

Bull picks up the phone and begins to tap out a message.

As soon as he's done, Dorian holds out his hand, putting the phone in his own pocket when Bull surrenders it. Then he finds a movie he knows Bull likes and collects the remotes before he sits on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table. "Lie down," he says briskly, patting his thigh. "Head here."

It takes a little maneuvering, but eventually he has Bull's head in his lap and Bull's legs stretched out as much as they can.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks, resting one hand on Bull's shoulder.

Bull's chin dips once in the barest of nods.

It's tempting to ask, "Are you sure?" but Dorian starts the movie instead.

They might as well be watching static for all the attention Dorian pays to it. All his focus is on the steady rise and fall of Bull's shoulder and the prickly beginnings of stubble on Bull's scalp. At some point, one of Bull's hands comes up to rest on his knee while the other pushes under Dorian's thigh so that Bull is almost holding onto his leg. Dorian manages not to let the hand stroking Bull's head falter, but it's a close thing.

When the movie's finished, Dorian starts to get up to swap it out, but Bull's fingers tighten briefly on his leg. It's hardly more than a flex and certainly nothing like clutching. Dorian stays put anyway, flipping channels until he finds some ridiculous "documentary" about aliens and pyramids. Ten minutes in, Bull snorts softly at some particularly illogical argument, and Dorian relaxes very slightly.

Somewhere around midnight, Bull asks in a raspy voice, "Don't you have work tomorrow?"

"No," Dorian says in the firm tone he's still trying to master. The last thing he wants right now is for Bull to try to turn this around, for Bull to be worrying about him.

It must work, because Bull doesn't speak again, not even when Dorian gets them up and headed toward the bedroom around two in the morning. Bull moves under his own power, but passively, doing everything Dorian says and then waiting for further instructions.

Tucked into bed, he curls up on his side, and Dorian lies behind him, the bedside light on so he can watch Bull breathe and stroke a hand lightly over his arm. Only once Bull is asleep does Dorian slip back out of bed to retrieve his laptop and paperwork. He considers working at the kitchen table where the light won't bother Bull, but he'd rather be nearby if Bull needs anything.

With a good pile of pillows, Dorian can prop himself up with the laptop on his knees and his papers on the nightstand beside him. He's as quiet as possible, typing slowly to minimize the noise of the keys, and Bull seems to sleep through it. He stirs once, murmuring Dorian's name, and Dorian rubs his shoulder, very glad Bull can't see his face right now. Without rolling over, Bull shifts so that his back is against Dorian's hip and goes back to sleep.

By the time Dorian hits send on the last email, it's after six, and his eyes are burning and gritty. He doesn't even bother to do anything except power down the laptop and put it on the nightstand, turning off the light that's now redundant with the sunlight streaming through the windows.

Perhaps Bull was more awake than he seemed, because as soon as Dorian lies down, Bull rolls over, wrapping both arms tightly around him. In the past, this position has always made Dorian feel like he was the one being protected and taken care of. Now the hold feels less like a blanket being wrapped around him and more like a child clutching a stuffed toy.

Dorian closes his eyes and tries to sleep, ignoring the way his chest is once again too tight.

###

Bull sleeps in short bursts, more a series of naps than real sleep, without ever coming all the way awake. When he is aware of his surroundings, he knows Dorian is there, and part of him feels guilty for that. Dorian has things to do. Lots of things to do based on the fact that he spends half the night tapping away on his laptop, shuffling papers quietly except for the occasional muttered curse at the idiot who wrote whatever he's reading. And even without that, Dorian doesn't need to carry the weight of Bull's issues along with all the shit Aquinea has stirred up. He's got enough to deal with.

Bull had planned to say so last night. He was going to let Dorian come over and make him dinner so Dorian would feel better, and afterward, Bull was going to send him on his way. Except it didn't quite work out. Somewhere between eating because it made Dorian happy and waking up this morning with his arms wrapped so tightly around Dorian it's a wonder he can breathe, the choice stopped being his to make. Even now, the guilt is muted by what Bull recognizes as the edges of subspace. It's been a long time since he felt it, but he knows what it is, and he's in deep enough not to care.

Around ten, Dorian gets them both out of bed. It doesn't seem to bother him to direct Bull through showering and dressing and eating more French toast, so Bull lets him, not bothering to fight his way free of the quiet space in his head.

They spend the rest of the morning on the couch, Bull with his head in Dorian's lap, Dorian with a stack of papers in his hand and his laptop perched precariously on the arm of the sofa. While Dorian works, Bull naps some more, unsettled sleep full of unpleasant dreams.

He doesn't dream of the explosion that cost him his eye, though god knows he has often enough in the past. Instead, he dreams of things like being dressed down publicly by his XO, something that never happened even though his brain can produce an overwhelming level of shame to go with it. That feeling persists through most of his dreams, even the silly ones where he does things like trip over a weight bench at the gym. If that happened in real life, he would laugh it off and forget about it within two minutes, but his dream self agonizes over it until the dream changes.

Dorian's hand is on him whenever he wakes, light fingers on his scalp or a cupped palm rubbing up and down his arm. It's soothing, even if it can't stop the dreams, and Bull spends a large part of the time pretending to be asleep so he can avoid his dreams but still have Dorian touching him. By early afternoon, he feels like he's melting into the couch cushions and perfectly happy about it.

Which is the point where a hard knock on the door makes both of them jump, dropping Bull back to reality and leaving Dorian wide-eyed and slightly breathless.

"Fuck," Dorian mutters, thrashing his way out from under Bull, his laptop, his papers, and the remains of their lunch.

The knock comes again, harder, and then the sound of a key in the lock. Dorian is still looking for a place to set his laptop when the front door opens and Krem steps cautiously through it, like he's not sure what he's going to find.

By the look on his face, he's as surprised as they are, and a distant part of Bull is amused to imagine how this would have gone if Dorian hadn't gotten both of them dressed. Despite the amusement, what he mostly feels is unsettled by the abrupt return to reality. His skin is starting to itch, and he gets to his feet mostly as an outlet for the nervous energy starting to run through him.

Dorian and Krem stare at each other for a painful few seconds before Krem blurts out, "What are you doing here?"

"What am _I_ doing here?" Dorian asks. All the masks are coming up, his arrogant SOB face snapping into place.

Krem's chin juts out and his eyes narrow, one foot sliding back so that he's halfway to a fighting stance even if he hasn't raised his fists.

Bull's own hands clench. He cannot deal with this shit today. He _can't_ , but he also can't seem to find the right words, or any words at all. A sharp exhale is the best he can do, trying to vent all the restlessness and frustration that's filling up the spaces in his head that were so quiet a few minutes ago.

The noise draws both their gazes to him. He can feel them like grasping hands, grabbing at him, needing him to solve this, and he's got nothing right now, nothing except this painful burning in every muscle that makes him want to lash out at anything he can hit. They both need to leave, _now_.

He looks up to tell them so, but neither of them is looking at him anymore. Krem is frowning at the coffee table and the takeout cartons from lunch, while Dorian is frowning at the takeout bag dangling from one of Krem's hands.

"I'll go," Krem says, right as Dorian says, "Just let me get my things."

They blink at each other, wary but also a tiny bit amused.

"You've known him longer," Dorian says quietly. "I'll leave you to it."

Even in his current state, Bull hears exactly what Dorian said: "You've known him longer," not "You know him better." Dorian is too careful with his words for it to be an accident, and Bull wants to shake him. He needs both of them to leave him in peace, not get into a pissing contest in his living room.

"He eat any of that?" Krem asks, jerking his chin at the coffee table.

"Yes," Dorian says stiffly. Then he unbends enough to say, "Not much, though."

Krem shrugs a shoulder, his fingers shifting on the handle of the bag. "Couldn't get him to eat anything last year."

Bull grits his teeth, still caught without words but needing both of them and their bristling defensiveness gone.

Dorian looks like he's thinking way too hard, but he's let the arrogant SOB mask slide away. "I imagine the first anniversary is harder than the second."

"Maybe," Krem says. He's really looking at Dorian now, the way Bull taught him to look at people, and under any other circumstances it would make Bull smile. Right now he just wants them to stop talking about him like he's not here.

"Just let me get my things," Dorian says suddenly, already opening the laptop to power it off. "It will only take a moment."

"No," Krem says, decisive now. He comes close enough to hand the takeout bag to Dorian, who clutches it like he doesn't know what to do with it, his laptop balanced precariously in the other hand. "You stay. I just wanted to make sure he wasn't by himself."

He heads for the door while Dorian is still blinking, then pauses with his hand on the knob. Without turning, he says, "You should come out and play with us sometime. On Tuesdays. It'd be fun."

"I-" Dorian swallows. "Yes. That would be fun."

Krem's nod is jerky. "Yeah. So..." He looks back at Bull, and whatever he sees on Bull's face makes him say hastily, "Be seeing you."

When he's gone, Dorian stares down at the bag in his hand for a moment, then shakes himself and looks up at Bull. He has his mouth open to say something, but it snaps closed as soon as his eyes meet Bull's.

Bull has no idea what expression he's wearing, just that there's too much restless energy prickling the inside of his skin, more annoying than painful and so almost impossible to ignore. Pain he can shut out, or drown in, but this is like a thousand ants crawling over him, and the sensation pins him to the here and now.

It doesn't help that Dorian is standing there looking confused and unsure for almost the first time since he walked in the door last night, and his uncertainty is making Bull's stomach churn. It's pissing him off, if he's honest, like Dorian came along and kicked his legs out from under him, and that he knows he's being unfair just makes him angrier.

Dorian looks away to find a spot for the food on the coffee table, shoving his papers into an uneven stack to make room. There's no pause in his movements, no moment where he stands still like he's gathering his thoughts, but when he straightens, his face is calm. He's centered himself again, and everything about him from the set of his shoulders to the tilt of his eyebrows demands that Bull give up control to him.

It makes Bull dizzy, anger fighting with the need to obey, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants so he can clench his fists where Dorian can't see them.

"Tell me what I can do to help," Dorian says.

More carefully chosen words: not asking "Can I help?" or even "What can I do to help?" but an actual command, without a way for Bull to change the direction of the conversation.

Command or not, Bull is pissed, because there's no way Dorian can help. Bull wants to be back in the army with all the structure and purpose it gave him, all the things he's worked so hard not to think about for the last two years. He doesn't want to be here, forcibly retired and carrying a scar that reminds him every fucking day of what he's lost.

"Tell me what I can do to help," Dorian says again, more forcefully.

Words come at last, and Bull says with deliberate calm, "You can go the hell away."

###

Dorian has heard the expression "cutting words," has even used it on occasion, but for the second time in his life, he _feels_ the truth of it. He wants to gasp for breath, to press his hand to his chest where the pain is grinding under his ribs, to turn on his heel and do exactly what Bull told him to do.

Instead, he says evenly, "No." He wraps up the pain and shoves it away, setting it aside the way he's done so many times before. "Try again."

Bull is glaring at him, his lips pressed tight together, looking more dangerous than Dorian has ever seen him. If only physical danger was all he had to worry about.

That threat does give Dorian an idea. "Put on your shoes," he says, pointing at the sneakers sitting beside the front door. His confidence is in tatters, but he doesn't let it show. Rather than demand that Bull give up control, he acts as though Bull already has.

And it works. Bull's shoulders are still too tight, his fingers flexing before he picks up the first shoe, but he gets them on and when he straightens, he just looks at Dorian without saying anything. His gaze is challenging, though, in a way it wasn't before.

The time it takes Dorian to find his own shoes and get them on gives him time to mute the voice repeating Bull's "Go the hell away" on an endless loop, even if he can't silence it completely. He feels like he's bleeding out, and every time the words run through his head, the knife twists.

Since there's nothing he can do about it short of following that command, Dorian pretends everything is fine as he leads the way into the garage, where he knows Bull keeps a bench and two racks of weights.

Bull proceeds to prove that he really could bench press Dorian without breaking a sweat by putting two hundred pounds on the bar to start with and going back for more after two sets. Concerned about his back, Dorian says, "That's enough," when the bar hits three hundred pounds and doesn't blink when Bull tries to stare him down.

As if to make up for that unwanted limit, Bull does sets until he's sweating and every breath is forced out between clenched teeth. He racks the bar with careful precision after each set, with never more than a small clink or scrape. Once the bar is settled in the uprights, he stares at the ceiling without blinking, and Dorian can see him counting off seconds until he reaches one minute. Then he unracks the bar and does another set.

His form is good for a long time, but eventually his arms start to tremble. On a press, one elbow dips before he catches it and forces it straight to match the other. On the next descent, he doesn't breathe at all, and his lips are pressed together so hard they're barely visible. Dorian stands behind his head, ready to catch the bar if necessary, and tries to ignore the way his chest still feels like someone cut him open.

The same elbow tries to give on the next press. Bull corrects, eye narrowing as he concentrates, and he makes it through that set without any more slips. The break is longer this time, almost two minutes, and Dorian has to bite his tongue when Bull unracks the bar again. He tenses, watching Bull's arms shake, and when that elbow buckles for a third time, he's there to catch the bar before it slams down into Bull's chest.

Getting it back into the uprights isn't easy even with Bull's help, but once he's got it racked, keeping it there is a simple matter of resting his weight on it. Bull stares up at him as he counts off another minute, and when he reaches for the bar again, his expression demands that Dorian let go. It's not easy, but Dorian stamps down on the urge to scream and finds that part of him that's kept control of the situation most of the day.

"Stop," he says. Quietly, but with all the force he can muster.

Bull's arms tense, trying to unrack the bar without success. Dorian doesn't look away and doesn't let go of his control, and after a second, Bull's hands drop away from the bar. He rubs them over his face, shoving the eyepatch aside to fall on the floor.

Hoping that means he really has given up, Dorian looks around and finds a towel. Bull's hands and arms are shaking, his fingers barely able to hold the cloth when Dorian passes it to him. While Bull's face is hidden behind the towel, Dorian takes the time to press the heel of his palm to his own chest, as if that will do anything for the pain.

He has at least the appearance of control back by the time Bull moves the towel to his neck, though it doesn't much matter, since Bull's eye is shut. The anger, at least, appears to be gone: his body is shaking from exhaustion but he's no longer tense.

Dorian doesn't know what to do from here, so he waits, letting Bull wrap and unwrap the towel from around his hand. Gradually, Bull's breathing slows and his hands settle low on his chest, the towel held lightly between them.

When he speaks, it's so unexpected Dorian almost jumps.

"It wasn't anything heroic, or some shit like that," Bull says conversationally. "Just a couple of IEDs, and some assholes with guns, and fucking bad timing on my part. One of my guys got shot in the leg, and I went to get him right as the second IED went off."

Dorian's not sure what definition of heroic Bull's working from if that's not included, but he says nothing.

"They told me I was lucky," Bull says. The anger is back, burning under the words, so hot Dorian wants to lean away. He clamps his fingers down on the bar to keep himself still. "Like I needed them to tell me how much worse it could've been. Like it made a fucking bit of difference when they tossed my ass out."

Bull's eye is still closed, his face relaxed, but his fingers are twisting the towel like he wants to rip it in half.

"All I wanted was to keep my guys safe," he says. "Even when it happened, blood every-fucking-where, mostly I just thought about getting them out of there. Didn't realize until we got back what it was going to mean for me."

The towel protests with a creak of stressed fabric. If Bull hears it, he doesn't care.

"And I want to say I'd do it again now, even though I know what it would cost, but there's this part of me that hesitates, and that's the worst fucking part. So was I just full of shit the whole time? Oh, sure, I'll do anything to take care of my guys!" He snorts. "Anything except that, I guess."

If there's something Dorian could say, he doesn't know what it is.

"Do you know what it's like to have a purpose, and a place in the world that makes _sense_?" Bull asks, but Dorian doesn't think he's looking for an answer. "And then it's just gone. In a puff of smoke." He laughs humorlessly at the joke. "Fuck. It would've been easier if it had just fucking killed me."

Dorian can't breathe, as dizzy as if he really is bleeding out. He wants to protest, but he can't get his throat open enough for words. He wants to touch Bull, but he can't get his hands to release their grip on the bar.

There's no sound for a while, even their breathing quiet. With Bull's eye closed, it gives Dorian time to gather himself together once more, despite the exhaustion beginning to weigh on him. "Up," he says when he knows he'll say it in the right tone. "Time to shower."

Miracle of miracles, Bull gets up and follows him into the house and lets himself be stripped down, all without saying a word. While Bull is showering, Dorian cleans up the living room, putting leftovers in the fridge and tidying his papers into stacks, ignoring his laptop and the unfinished work still left to do. It's going to have to wait until later, because right now, Dorian has no energy to spare. He doesn't even have enough to cry, though the pain is still corkscrewing inside him.

_"You can go the hell away."_

_"It would've been easier if it had just fucking killed me."_

Cutting words, and he feels flayed open right now.

When the water turns off in the shower, Dorian takes that as his cue and returns to the bedroom. He's tired enough that he lets himself sit on the edge of the bed, even though he's not sure if he can maintain that air of authority from this position. Since Bull will always be taller than him, sitting or standing, Dorian decides that he'll just have to hope for the best.

The phone in his pocket buzzes, and Dorian pulls it out before he remembers that it's Bull's phone, not his. By then he's already seen the text on the screen, and there's no point pretending he hasn't.

It's from Krem: _S and I got your shifts tomorrow. Stay home another day._

Dorian doesn't know who "S" is, but he wants to kiss them. And Krem, though the thought of Krem's face if he tried is enough to make him smile.

The bathroom door opens, and Dorian looks up, keeping that faint smile in place to bolster the illusion of confidence. Bull is naked except for the eyepatch, his face once again blank rather than challenging. It's tempting to order him to remove the eyepatch, but Dorian isn't sure what might happen. He _is_ sure what will happen if he gives Bull an order he refuses to follow, and he hasn't spent the last twenty hours in charge to give up now.

Before he can decide what order to give--whether food or sleep is the more pressing need--Bull crosses the room and sinks down to his knees in front of Dorian. It takes him a little while, and there's some unpleasant popping from his joints, but Dorian waits and doesn't let any of his confusion show on his face.

Even once he's kneeling, Bull's head continues down, bowing low enough to rest on Dorian's knees. His hands are on his thighs, the fingers twitching as if he wants to flex them, or curl them into fists.

Dorian has no idea what to do. It's the most submissive posture he's ever seen Bull assume, and given the problems with his knees and back, probably the closest he can get to abasing himself. But knowing that doesn't tell Dorian why, or what he's supposed to do with what is so clearly an offering.

There's a small sound, like a click, and Dorian realizes after a moment that Bull opened his mouth and then closed it again.

For lack of any better idea, Dorian says, "Tell me."

There's a moment where he thinks it was the wrong choice, then Bull says against his knees, "I'm sorry."

Dorian keeps his body relaxed, but inside, that corkscrew is driving deeper into his chest. He doesn't dare open his mouth.

Maybe Bull takes that silence as a rejection, because his fingers curl again, almost all the way into fists before he flattens them. "I'm sorry." It's a whisper this time. "Please don't leave. I don't want you to leave."

Dorian's throat aches as much as his chest now, but he has to say something. He works his throat as silently as he can, and when he speaks, he's barely more than whispering himself. "I'm not leaving."

Bull's fingers stretch wide this time, rigid and tense until he forces them to relax against his thighs. "I'm sorry." He's almost begging this time, and that hurts more than anything else he's said today.

As much as it hurts, the begging is what finally gives Dorian the clue he needs. He picks his words more carefully than ever, sifting through a hundred different ways to say it. The one he settles on feels stilted and formal, but it also feels right with Bull on his knees like this.

One hand cupped around the back of Bull's neck, Dorian leans down enough to kiss the crown of his head. "You're forgiven."

Bull's hands stop moving restlessly, and the muscles in his neck loosen under Dorian's hand. For his part, Dorian's heart is beating so hard he half expects Bull to be able to feel it in his palm.

It takes him a while to gather himself, counting the time by Bull's steady breaths rather than by the numbers on the clock. When he reaches fifty, Dorian lifts his head and squeezes the back of Bull's neck. "Stand up."

Getting back up from his knees is more of a production than getting down, but Dorian lets him do it by himself: not rushing him, but not offering help, either. When Bull is finally standing, Dorian looks him over thoughtfully. Maybe he's favoring his right leg a little, but his back is straight, and Dorian thinks he's all right.

Physically, at least.

"Good," Dorian murmurs. He doesn't know if he quite matches the tone Bull uses on him, but perhaps sincerity will make up the difference if he missed.

Whether it does or not, Bull remains passive as Dorian gets them both ready for bed. It's only four in the afternoon, but given how little either of them slept last night, Dorian can only hope that a little more will do both of them some good.

In bed with the lights out, he arranges them so that Bull is curled on his side, his head on Dorian's chest and one arm curled around his waist. Dorian doesn't usually like to sleep on his back, but any other position feels like he's giving up too much control.

Bull falls asleep almost immediately, and Dorian isn't far behind, though he wakes every time Bull stirs. It's not the most restful sleep he's ever gotten, but by the time Bull rolls away from him at a little after ten in the evening, he's slept long enough to be hungry. He'd been focused on getting Bull to eat at both breakfast and lunch, and now that he's no longer queasy with anxiety, Dorian's stomach is reminding him forcibly how little he's eaten.

With Bull no longer pinning him down, it's easy to slide out of bed without disturbing him, and Dorian is familiar enough with the bedroom to navigate it in the dark. He leaves the door cracked to avoid waking Bull with the sound of the latch catching and tiptoes down the hallway to the kitchen. The light over the stove is enough to see by, and he eats cold lo mein standing over the sink, deliberately thinking about nothing at all.

He's cleaning up after himself when Bull's words come back to him again, the words Dorian thought sleep had buried.

_"It would've been easier if it had just fucking killed me."_

Dorian braces his hands on the counter and lets his head hang down between his shoulders, breathing slow and deep. Bull has already apologized, and Dorian won't press him on this, not when he knows how hard these last few days have been.

The problem is that Rilienus taught him too well how much distance there is between "Please don't leave me" and "I want to be here." Short of picking at Bull's scabs, there's no way for Dorian to know if that same distance exists in Bull's mind.

Too deep in thought, he doesn't realize Bull is awake until hands come down on the counter, half covering his as Bull's arms block him in. Dorian can't turn or straighten, because Bull is leaning over him now, his forehead against the back of Dorian's head.

"I'm sorry," Bull says. His tone is matter-of-fact, without the undertone of begging that bothered Dorian so much earlier.

"For what?" Dorian asks, trying to make a joke of it to fend off the memories of that earlier apology. "For occasionally needing help like the rest of us?"

"No, not that." Bull laughs, just a quick puff of air on the back of Dorian's neck. "Well, mostly not that, and I'm working on it." He shifts, his arms closing Dorian in tighter. "I'm sorry for what I said."

Dorian swallows. Too hard, he knows Bull can hear it, but too late now.

"I don't want to die," Bull says into his hair. "Stop worrying about it, okay? I'm not going to kill myself, or do some dumbass thing that'll get me killed while I pretend that's not what I'm doing. Maybe it would've been _easier_ if that IED had killed me, but it didn't, and I'm not going to try to change that."

It's only moderately comforting, because it only touches the barest edges of the problem.

As if Bull can hear his thoughts, he shifts again, his body so close around Dorian's it's hard to breathe. "I'm not going anywhere. Really."

Dorian's eyes are burning, but he pushes against Bull's hold enough to turn around and boost himself up on the counter so they're almost eye-to-eye. When he cups his hands around Bull's face, Bull closes his eye and leans into the pressure.

"I'm glad to hear that," Dorian says quietly.

Bull leans their foreheads together, his hands curling around the back of Dorian's knees. "I shouldn't have said that. Any of it."

It's not exactly what Dorian wants to hear, but he's not going to fish for the "right" words. "It's fine."

"No, it's not." Bull rocks his head from side to side, the best headshake he can manage with their foreheads pressed together like this. "I shouldn't have said it," he says again, but this time he adds, "I didn't mean it."

Dorian relaxes a little, the sharp ache in his chest beginning to ease.

"I'm glad you're here," Bull says. And then, "I'm glad I'm here with you."

"I'm glad you're here with me, too," Dorian says. He can breathe easily again, for the first time in more than a day, and he revels in it, drawing air deep into his lungs. "I'm glad I'm here with you."

"Me, too." The smile is in his voice, even if Dorian can't see it.

There's a pause then, a long stretch of nothing, but it feels peaceful instead of empty. Balanced.

Bull leans in to kiss him lightly, then kisses him again with clear intent, tongue tracing Dorian's lower lip. The dynamic between them shifts, slipping away from this place where Dorian is the one in control. By habit, he lets go, but then something inside him protests.

Giving up power to Bull is one thing. Having it taken away is something else entirely.

With his hands still cupping Bull's face, it's easy to push him a few inches away, far enough to make eye contact without his vision blurring. The control he's been holding onto for more than a day feels like a part of him now, less like something he borrowed from someone else. The excitement he felt last night is back, stronger now that he's not so worried.

Bull opens his mouth to speak, a concerned frown already forming between his brows, but before he can say anything, Dorian lets that excitement rise, lets it hold him steady to ask a single question.

"What's your safeword?"

###

The question echoes in Bull's head, so simple and so complicated at the same time. The answer is a lot bigger than "yes" or "no", bigger than the two words that would mean "yes," and he has to wonder if Dorian understands that. He wonders if he understands it himself. It's hard to think right now, to analyze all the potential consequences.

He could push back, take control or at least make this just about sex. It doesn't need to be a power exchange, he doesn't have to give up control if he doesn't want to. And he doesn't.

Except that's a lie. He _shouldn't_ want to give up control, but he does. He should want to be in charge, to take care of Dorian, especially after leaning on him so hard for more than a day. He should want to be in control, but he doesn't. He wants the peace that comes with handing over control to someone he can trust. He wants to be _nothing_ for a while.

"Red light." It comes out as a whisper.

Dorian reaches out, and Bull doesn't know what he's expecting, but it isn't for Dorian to remove his eyepatch. Bull tenses, his hand coming up instinctively to grab Dorian's, squeezing hard before he catches himself. Caught off guard, he feels horribly exposed, more than he would if Dorian had stripped him down in the center of the gym.

His brain comes back online a little, and he tries to force himself to relax before Dorian loses control of the scene. The last thing Bull needs to do is undermine him now. But when he looks up, Dorian's confidence is still in place, and he's watching Bull with a little smile. Waiting, the way Bull waits when he's done something he's not sure Dorian will like. Waiting for him to use the safeword, or to accept that he's not the one in charge.

The confident mask that Dorian puts on has always been something that Bull tolerates at best. It's a wall Dorian hides behind to keep the rest of the world at a distance, and he might as well say "I don't trust you" whenever he puts it on. Now, though? Now it says that what Bull wants doesn't matter, that what Dorian wants is what will happen, and it drags Bull under, stealing away the last of his desire to fight against it.

He lets go of Dorian's hand, and Dorian tosses the eyepatch on the counter without looking.

Back in the bedroom, Dorian strips both of them efficiently, pushing Bull down on the bed with a firm hand in the center of his chest. He's just as firm guiding Bull's hands above his head and pressing his palms against the underside of the bar that forms the top of the headboard.

"Don't move," Dorian says.

Bull doesn't nod, because that would imply Dorian had given him a choice, just grips the bar so tight that the edges bite into his palms and fingers.

Dorian's hands stroke down his arms, down his chest, fingers spreading wide so that the ghost of his touch lingers everywhere. Even when Dorian's hand is wrapped around his dick, it doesn't drown out the memory of his hands on less intimate places. It focuses the sensation, gives it a center point to revolve around, pulls it together so that his whole body is Dorian's.

Bull doesn't want to be anything else.

When Dorian reaches for the lube, one hand stays on Bull, resting on his chest over his heart, and Bull's awareness re-centers on that sole point of contact, on the thumb sweeping a gentle arc across his ribs and the fingers digging in just under his collarbone. Opening the condom requires both of Dorian's hands, and Bull is lost until those hands come back to ground him again.

Dorian rides him, fucking himself on Bull's cock while he strokes himself with one hand and twists the ring in one of his nipples with the other. His eyes are closed, and Bull wants to grab his hips, move his own hips in time with the rhythm Dorian is setting, do anything except hold himself still the way he was told.

Strong as the urge is, Bull fights it, every muscle in his body straining against the need to move. This isn't about what he wants, and that's fine. More than fine: it's good, it's right, it's perfect, Dorian using him like this. He wants to be used. To be useful.

Dorian curls inward, bracing himself with a hand on Bull's chest and comes with a groan, body shuddering and tightening, and Bull's eye squeezes shut as his own orgasm takes him by surprise, wiping out all thought.

He's only distantly aware of his body after that, his attention centered always on Dorian: Dorian cleaning him up, Dorian stroking the backs of his hands until Bull releases the headboard, Dorian pulling the blankets up over both of them. And then Dorian is astride him again, only this time, he's pressed close, chest to chest, his mouth on Bull's while his fingers explore Bull's face. His thumbs brush over Bull's eyes, the right eyelid and the ridges of scar tissue on the left, and the touch doesn't jolt him this time. It's Dorian's touch, and that's what he wants now, Dorian's skin against his everywhere possible.

Dorian's lips follow the path his fingers traced, a light kiss against Bull's closed eyelid and another, just as light, against the scar. "Go to sleep," Dorian murmurs, pressing a third kiss to the center of his forehead.

It would be easy to slip from subspace into sleep, but Bull fights it long enough to wrap his arms around Dorian, holding on tighter than he should.

Dorian's mouth brushes over his again. "I'm not leaving," he says. His hands push lightly on Bull's upper arms, all he can reach with Bull holding him like this. "Put your arms down."

He doesn't raise his voice, but the note of command is clear. Bull puts his arms down.

It gets him another soft kiss. "I'm not leaving," Dorian says again, emphatically.

_Trust me,_ his tone says, and it's the same tone he used when he told Bull not to move.

Bull settles deeper into the mattress, Dorian warm and heavy on top of him, and sleeps.


	28. Cut My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told myself as a prisoner  
> And I’ve broken my chains,  
> That I could be anyone  
> I’d run a thousand miles away  
> And I imagined America  
> Somewhere afar  
> Some place where the memories,  
> They couldn’t cut my heart
> 
> Tom Odell, "Here I Am"

Dorian drags himself out of bed at just past five the following morning. Another ten hours of sleep would be nice, but he's too aware of all the work that's piling up the longer he's out of the office. No matter how much he accomplished sitting on Bull's couch yesterday, there are some things he can't do from his laptop.

He does his best to be quiet as he moves around the bedroom, to no avail. Before he's even made it as far as the bathroom, Bull murmurs, "Dorian?" in a sleepy voice that almost undoes all Dorian's good intentions.

_Work,_ he reminds himself. _Work is not optional._

"I'm here," Dorian says.

The bedside light clicks on, leaving them both blinking for a moment. When Dorian can see him, Bull looks tired but not weighed down. If anything, he looks embarrassed.

Dorian changes direction, turning back toward the bed as Bull sits up and swings his feet to the floor.

"Good morning," Dorian says, rubbing his thumb across Bull's cheek below the scar. He can feel Bull frowning, and when he opens his mouth, Dorian adds, "Please don't say you're sorry."

Bull closes his mouth, confirming Dorian's guess. He's still frowning, so Dorian touches the underside of his jaw, encouraging him to raise his head. His gaze meets Dorian's steadily, but he still looks awkward and embarrassed.

"I'm glad I could help," Dorian says, hoping his face shows the truth of that. "I want to help when you need it."

"I try not to need it," Bull says wryly.

"I've noticed," Dorian says.

"You missed work because of me." By his tone, this is a sin only slightly below murder.

"I was out of the office for one day," Dorian corrects. "And I got significantly more actual work done than I would have had I been in the office."

Bull gives him a skeptical look, but it's the truth. It's much more difficult for people to interrupt him when they have to email instead of walk down the hall.

"I did," Dorian insists. "Though I should go in today, if you're all right."

"I'm okay," Bull says. "I've got to get to work, too."

"Oh!" Dorian says, reminded. "Krem texted you yesterday. I didn't mean to pry," he adds hastily. "I thought it was my phone until I looked at it."

"It's fine," Bull says. "What did he say?"

"That he and...someone named S would cover your shifts today."

"Skinner," Bull says, which Dorian can only hope is a surname or a nickname. "But I don't need them to."

Dorian weighs the merits of giving Bull another day to rest compared with giving him something to do and decides to keep his mouth shut. What seals it for him is the knowledge that Bull will be around friends if he goes to work, not sitting at home by himself.

"All right," Dorian says. "Shower?"

Bull gives him a surprised look. After a second, he says, "Yeah," and heaves himself to his feet, forcing Dorian to step back to give him room. It feels like a rejection until Bull curls a hand around the back of his neck and asks in an almost normal voice, "Want to share?"

Dorian smiles. "How could I say no?"

The shower is awkward at first, both of them moving warily around each other like they're not sure what will happen each time skin brushes against skin. After a few minutes of that, Dorian rolls his eyes at himself and moves deliberately into Bull's space.

Bull leans down for a kiss, and it loosens the knot of worry that's been tangling in Dorian's chest. He returns the kiss enthusiastically, and he can feel Bull's laugh rumbling in his own chest.

"Are you planning to stay late tonight?" Dorian asks when Bull lets him go.

"Are you asking when I'm getting off tonight?" Bull asks. His smirk kills the last of the tension, and Dorian smirks right back.

"I would never ask anything so crude." Dorian pauses for effect, then adds, "So, when are you getting off tonight?"

"Normal time," Bull says. "If you'll be here."

A different kind of tension winds through Dorian, surprising but not unpleasant. "I'll be here."

###

Work is exactly as much of a disaster as Dorian expected, his inbox buried in all the things he couldn't work on remotely. At least his email inbox is as clean as it ever gets, leaving him free to handle the teetering stacks of papers on his desk.

As crazy as it is, it's the kind of crazy he likes, the kind that involves hours reading and highlighting and assembling answers, rather than the kind that involves lots of people. He missed two meetings with clients yesterday, but both chose times next week when Minaeve called to re-schedule them, and everyone else is leaving him alone for the most part.

He works through lunch as usual, and by the time Bull gets off work, Dorian has made enough progress that he only feels slightly guilty about leaving. He has five appointments tomorrow, which means he'll get exactly nothing done, but there's always the weekend, and he's rather looking forward to spending Saturday afternoon in Bull's office at the gym.

Standing on Bull's porch, Dorian has an echo of the anxiety he felt last time he was here. Bull opens the door with a smile, though, and even if he is dressed much the same, even if he still looks a little tired, that smile goes a long way toward reassuring Dorian that he didn't screw up too badly yesterday.

Dorian picked up takeout on his way over, and they carry it to the bedroom. Sitting cross-legged on Bull's bed, eating Thai directly from the styrofoam containers, Dorian feels more at home than he ever has in another person's house. He wants to say something, to try to explain that to Bull, but the words won't come. It's too much, too personal, so he says nothing, content in the knowledge that there will be another chance, when they're not both recovering from a day as emotionally draining as yesterday.

He tells Bull about his day and listens while Bull talks about his, and he's thinking seriously about sleep when Bull smears a bit of kaeng phet on his neck and leans forward to lick it off. Thoroughly and enthusiastically.

Dorian laughs and sets aside the empty carton still in his hands, taking the kaeng phet away from Bull to put it on the nightstand. He's barely set them down before Bull grabs him and rolls them both across the bed.

It doesn't take long to get rid of their clothes, and then it's just hands on skin, Bull's mouth against his throat while Dorian strokes him, taking the time to enjoy the way Bull's cock feels as it gets harder. He thinks about sucking it, or about rolling over, spooning up against Bull while Bull fucks him, but he doesn't want to move away long enough to get a condom, so he just works Bull's cock with one hand while the other cups Bull's cheek.

Bull kisses the hollow of his throat, his lips moving against Dorian's neck as he whispers praise and encouragement that break apart eventually into moans and harsh gasps for air, his fingers clutching at Dorian's shoulder as he comes.

Bull's hands are still shaking a little when he wraps one around Dorian's cock. He's whispering against Dorian's throat again, "come on" and "yes" and "god you're beautiful," his free hand pressed on top of Dorian's hand on his cheek, and Dorian just lets himself fall into the pure sensation of Bull's body against his.

###

Saturday afternoon, Dorian drags Bull off for a preliminary fitting on the tux, and Bull has to admit that even unfinished, it makes a hell of a statement. He's never looked this good in a suit in his entire life.

By the glitter in Dorian's eyes, Bull mentally sets aside a little extra time to get ready on Tuesday. He has a sneaking suspicion he may have to get dressed twice.

As Armando is hanging up the tux and his assistant is scribbling down the last of her notes, Dorian leans over and murmurs in Bull's ear, "I may be late to work on Wednesday."

Bull can't quite control a laugh, and Armando turns back toward them, eyebrows raised questioningly. Those eyebrows go from questioning to disapproving in a second, and Armando gives Dorian what Bull can only describe as an old fashioned look.

Without looking away from Dorian, Armando says to Bull, "I'll provide you with information on the proper care for your tuxedo once it's finished, but I trust Dorian can help you with that. Any good suit should be treated with respect."

Dorian nods solemnly, and Armando tsk's but goes back to hanging the tux. Bull's pretty sure that the proper care for a good suit doesn't include being tossed on the floor or removed at speed to get naked as fast as possible. He wonders if blowjobs while wearing one are also on the "no" list and makes a note to ask Dorian about that later, in private.

Later turns out to be less than an hour later, sitting in Bull's office with the door closed while Dorian works on his laptop and Bull works his way through the stack of bills he needs to pay. When he asks the question, Dorian laughs, that perfect laugh Bull loves, low and pleased.

"Sadly, yes, blowjobs while wearing a tuxedo are frowned upon." The pause is long enough that Bull looks up, and his heart beats a little faster at the look on Dorian's face. "But I'll bet the shorts you're wearing now are washable."

A safe bet, given they're gym shorts. Gym shorts that are suddenly uncomfortably tight. Bull glances at the closed door, then back at Dorian, who gives him an evil smile, and says, "But we'll have to wait until another day to find out for sure. I mean, two days is hardly sufficient time to allay anyone's suspicions about the closed door, don't you think?"

"I think you're an asshole," Bull says.

Dorian laughs again. "It's been said." He turns back to his laptop pointedly, but Bull can see he's still smiling.

Just as Bull picks up his paperwork again, Dorian asks, "What time did you say you were getting off tonight?"

Now it's Bull's turn to laugh. "I dunno, you tell me. I'm done with work at eight."

Dorian nods like he's giving something serious thought. "So about nine, then?"

"Nine sounds good," Bull agrees in the same bland tone Dorian is using.

###

It actually winds up being a little after nine because Dorian likes to tease, but Bull's okay with that.

###

Dorian leaves work an hour early on Tuesday to meet Bull at home, not because he thinks Bull can't dress himself but because he wants to watch, if only to build anticipation for later tonight when he gets to reverse the process.

Bull does need help with the bow tie, and Dorian has to admit that maybe all those books and movies were on to something. There's something incredibly intimate about standing close enough to kiss without doing it, Bull's head tipped back to show his throat while Dorian works on the tie, his fingers occasionally brushing Bull's skin.

"There," he says when he's done, a little breathless.

Bull catches his chin to kiss him long and slow, tasting his mouth as if they're not due at a party in less than an hour. Dorian rests his hands on the front of Bull's shirt and tries to remember not to grab hold. Armando would kill him, fifty years of family history or not.

"There," Bull says, when _he's_ done. Somehow Dorian is still the one who's breathless, though.

"We're not staying until the party is over," Dorian informs him.

"God, I hope not," Bull says, smiling down at him.

"You need to stop looking at me now," Dorian says. "Or we're not making it to the party at all."

To emphasize his words, he steps back and turns away, picking up the hangers holding his and Bull's jackets, jackets they won't put on until they're in the parking lot at the aquarium.

Behind him, he can hear Bull chuckling, and it makes him smile. He puts on a serious face to look back, quirking one eyebrow. "Coming?" he asks.

"I thought that was after the party," Bull says.

"Oh, right," Dorian says. "My mistake."

###

It's hard to keep his eyes off Dorian, even without the jacket on. Actually, maybe it would be easier if he was fully dressed, if Bull couldn't imagine undoing all those buttons and peeling him out of that tux one layer at a time.

_Later,_ he promises himself. He'll be as slow and careful as Armando could want, too, taking his sweet time so that Dorian is hard and desperate long before he's naked.

In the car, it's easier to keep his mind on task, to think about the party rather than what will happen after it. Or at least, it is until Dorian takes one hand off the wheel to rest it on his knee, thumb stroking idle circles. The touch sends a strange jolt through him, half sexual and half something else. It feels good, whatever it is.

At the aquarium, Dorian helps him into his jacket and spends a couple minutes smoothing out the lines. Bull doesn't need to know anything about tuxedos to know that Dorian is taking way more time than he needs, using the excuse to run his hands over Bull's shoulders repeatedly.

"Unless you want me to walk in there with a hard-on," Bull says to him eventually, "I think the jacket's fine."

Dorian grins at him unashamedly. "We wouldn't want that," he says, then smooths the back of the jacket one more time, all the way down to Bull's ass, which gets a quick squeeze.

"Not helping," Bull mutters.

"Is that what I was supposed to be doing?" Dorian asks. "I knew I'd forgotten something important."

He steps back around to give Bull a last once-over, eyes scanning from head to toe. Whatever he sees, it must meet with his approval, because he nods and leads the way across the parking lot.

Inside, the party is just getting started, the cheese platters still mostly intact and the servers wandering with full trays. Nearly everyone has a drink in hand, and Dorian stops by the bar first. He gets himself a Coke, and Bull follows his lead, skipping the liquor in favor of something that doesn't have the potential for embarrassing stories later.

Then comes the mingling, and if Bull thought Dorian was good at the cookout last month, he was wrong. This is Dorian at his smoothest, chatting and smiling and shaking hands with what seems like every single person at the party, as happy to talk about the new tank and its finned occupants as he is to talk about politics and recent Supreme Court decisions.

He's more at ease than last time, too. The masks are very much in place, but they fit better, more a subtle variation on his actual mood than full-on defense. Max isn't the only one who gets a real smile this time.

The only cloud on the evening is Rilienus. He isn't actually lurking, it's just Bull's knowledge of his history with Dorian that makes it feel that way, but every time Bull sees him, he can feel his face tighten. The best he can manage is to not scowl outright, and the handful of times Rilienus begins to head in their direction, Bull puts on his best "try me" look until Rilienus goes elsewhere.

Other than Rilienus, though, it's a lot more fun that he expected, and not just because it's making Dorian happy to have him there. He talks to Max, and to some people he remembers from the cookout, and it's all surprisingly not awkward. Some people are just there to schmooze and drink free booze, but plenty are there to see the tanks, and it doesn't seem to matter that he's a plus-one rather than actually part of any group responsible for the party.

At a little before nine, Dorian begins the slow process of saying good-bye, which seems to involve shaking hands again with everyone he's already shaken hands with once. The leaving is a lot faster than the arriving, at least, and it's only ten minutes after nine when the door is in sight, metaphorically speaking.

Rilienus makes another try at approaching, and Bull gives him a flat stare, anger stirring the way it has every time they've made eye contact tonight. _No._ No, Bull is not letting anyone ruin Dorian's evening, not when Dorian is happy and as relaxed as he ever gets around this many people.

The look works just as well this time as it has the other two, and Rilienus veers off as if he'd always been headed for the bar. Bull is still working on recovering his own good mood when Dorian turns, expression puzzled and relieved for half a second before he sees Bull's face and the walls come down hard.

They're alone right now--which is probably why Rilienus tried to approach--and Dorian's hand closes on Bull's arm with a bruising grip. "Stop it," Dorian hisses.

"I'm not doing anything," Bull says. His anger no longer has a target, and it sits like a hot lump in his stomach, ready to burn anyone if he can't keep it in check.

"Don't fuck with me," Dorian says, low and intense.

Bull's grip on his temper slips a little. "I'm not the one fucking with you." Why does Dorian _do_ this? He can't protect himself from Rilienus for a lot of reasons, but he could just let Bull do it, instead of shutting him out.

"Stop," Dorian says between clenched teeth. "Just stop. We are not having this conversation here, but stop glaring at my firm's clients."

It's too much: his anger at Rilienus, his anger at Dorian for not letting Bull take care of him, his anger at himself for being angry with Dorian over something Dorian can't help, topped off with anger at the way this whole thing is ruining the evening and guilt over even worrying about getting laid when there are far more important things going on.

The word just comes out, too hard under the weight of his emotions. "No."

###

Dorian hardly hears him. Max. It has to be Max, because he's the only one who knows enough to put that look on Bull's face at just the sight of Rilienus. Which makes it a double betrayal, by the two people he trusted most.

"Stop," Dorian says between clenched teeth. "Just stop. We are not having this conversation here, but stop glaring at my firm's clients."

"No," Bull says, and this time, Dorian's head snaps up in shock. He can't actually remember Bull ever telling him no before, not like this. There have been small no's over things like what to eat for dinner and what movie to watch, but never a no on something this important.

"No?" Dorian asks.

"No." Bull looks as pissed as Dorian feels. "I can't help it that you think one client's opinion of the place you work is more important than protecting yourself, but I don't have to agree."

Dorian feels like he's been punched. "We're not talking about this right now." It comes out cold and tight. That he sounds just like his mother only adds another layer of misery.

He turns away, from that knowledge and from Bull both. "Let's go." He wishes now they'd driven separately, that Bull's car wasn't parked in his driveway and that Bull's stuff wasn't spread out all over his bedroom.

Three steps from the door, Max is there, arms already raised to give him a farewell hug. Because of course he is.

Dorian doesn't stop, brushing by with nothing more than a muttered, "Fuck you." Max's eyes widen in shock, but Dorian is past him, and there's nothing between him and the door.

Neither of them says anything in the car ride back to Dorian's, but as soon as they're in the house, Bull starts, "Dorian, look-"

"No," Dorian snaps, whirling around to jab a finger into his chest. "You look." He has to pause to get enough air, his chest too tight. "How _dare_ you!"

"Me?" Bull asks, looking like he's hanging on to his temper by his fingernails. "I get that Rilienus did a lot of shitty things to you, that it's hard for you to see-"

"This isn't about Rilienus!" Dorian shouts, startling Bull into stepping back. "This has _nothing_ to do with Rilienus!"

"Then what the fuck are we fighting about?" Bull demands.

"You went behind my back," Dorian says. Every breath is a struggle, and Dorian touches his throat without thinking. His tie. His tie is choking him, that's why he can't get enough air, and he yanks at it with shaking hands. "You talked to Max rather than talking to me. It was my story, my life, and you went to him, you talked about my business, about _me_ , you talked _about_ me rather than _to_ me..."

He stops, out of breath and words both, so angry and ashamed his stomach feels like it's turning itself inside out. His inhale is more of a gasp.

"You couldn't have just left it alone?" he asks. It sounds too much like pleading, but the words just tumble out.

Bull says nothing, looking more sick than angry now.

"I didn't want you to know," Dorian says. The tie comes undone at last and he jerks it from around his neck, twisting it between his hands. "I was stupid, and I let him fuck me over in so many ways, and I didn't want you to know, all right? I didn't want you to see how badly I fucked up, how stupid I was." His voice is perilously close to breaking, and he stops before it does, before he has to suffer one more embarrassment tonight, one more loss of control.

The one Bull and Max have forced on him is bad enough. And fuck, he _still_ can't breathe.

"I wanted to know what was going on," Bull says softly. "And I didn't want to hurt you by asking."

"It was _my choice_." His throat aches as he tries to suck in enough air. "It was my choice to tell you, and you took that away."

They stare at each other, Dorian's harsh gasps the only sound. Shame and anger are choking him, and he feels like he's a year back in time, the only person who didn't know what was going on in his own fucking life. Out of control. His desires rendered irrelevant in favor of someone else's, without anyone consulting him.

"You're right," Bull says. "I'm sorry."

It's not what Dorian was expecting, and added to everything else, it drives him right back to old habits.

_I'm sorry._ Rilienus didn't say those words often, and when he did, he expected instant forgiveness. Dorian always gave it, too, grateful to be done with a fight so easily and painlessly. Swallowing his anger is something he learned years ago, that he can do effortlessly.

That he used to do effortlessly, but somewhere over the past months, he's lost the knack, and it all sticks in his throat. He doesn't want to fight, he doesn't want to be angry, but it's tearing through him, and he can't make it stop.

Bull reaches out and Dorian jerks back, his skin prickling uncomfortably at the mere thought of being touched.

"I'm sorry," Bull says again. "Tell me what you need from me."

"Leave," Dorian says, the only word he can push out past the mess of emotions blocking his throat. He used to know how to swallow his anger, but it's not working now. "Please leave."

Bull's fingers flex at his side. "Okay," he whispers. Clears his throat. Tries again. "Okay."

He turns to the door, and he still looks amazing in the tuxedo, and Dorian thinks about how happy he was two hours ago, how he felt standing next to Bull at the party, and he almost takes it all back, almost forces the anger down whether it wants to go or not.

_Please don't leave._

_Please don't leave me._

Dorian clenches his fists and says nothing.

Bull leaves.


	29. Ravages of Spirit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What ravages of spirit  
> Conjured this tempestuous rage  
> Created you a monster  
> Broken by the rules of love
> 
> Sarah McLachlan,"You Do What You Have to Do"

At home, Bull takes off the tuxedo and hangs it up as carefully as Armando might want, straightening the collar and smoothing out the wrinkles in the pants. Then he puts it in the closet and shoves the hanger to the far end of the bar, where six or so inches of the closet extend behind the wall. It can stay there with his dress uniform, both of them reminders of the two things he least wants to remember.

He showers, washing away the smell of Dorian's soap and the subtle traces of Dorian's cologne, then climbs into bed and stares at the ceiling in the dark until it's time to for work. His heart rate isn't up, but he can feel every beat thudding in his chest, turning his stomach into a queasy knot. Food seems like a bad idea, so he chokes down an Ensure--kept in the fridge for days he doesn't have time to cook--and barely notices the chalky, fake-chocolate taste.

He drives to work and registers exactly nothing about the trip until he's blinking at Dalish where she stands behind the counter at the gym.

"You okay, Chief?" she asks, looking at him in alarm.

"I'm fine," he says, then has to control a wince as that reminds him of Dorian.

By the expression on Dalish's face, he's not doing a very good job of faking it, but he's her boss, and so long as he doesn't give her an opening, she's not going to push.

He has no such protection from Krem, who sticks his head into Bull's office to say good morning and freezes in the doorway.

"What?" Bull asks irritably.

"What happened?" Krem asks.

"Nothing," Bull says, knowing his tone is giving him away. "I'm fine."

"The fuck you are," Krem says.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Tough shit." Krem moves at last. Unfortunately, he moves into the office rather than out, closing the door behind himself.

And there's another reminder of Dorian. Fuck. Bull wonders how many more of those land mines he's going to find, and he has a sinking feeling the answer is, "A lot."

Krem drops into the visitor's chair across from Bull and gives him an expectant look.

"Make yourself at home," Bull says.

"Already have, thanks," Krem says. "And you know I'm not going away until you talk, so you might as well save us the embarrassment of being late to our next appointments." He smiles. "Because I'll make us both miss them completely if that's what it takes."

He will, too.

Bull considers ignoring him anyway, going so far as to pick up the nearest stack of papers and flip through like he's looking for something. It doesn't get his mind off Dorian, or Krem.

After a minute, Bull gives up. "We had a fight."

"I kinda figured. What about?"

"Me being a complete fucking idiot."

"Doesn't narrow it down much, Chief."

Bull laughs reluctantly. "I stuck my nose in where I shouldn't have."

"Hey, you're together, right?" Krem asks with a shrug. "You're allowed to be in each other's business."

 _Are_ they still together? That's one of the things that's been weighing on Bull's mind: when Dorian told him to leave, did he mean "leave for now" or "leave forever"?

"In each other's business, yeah," Bull says at last. "But that doesn't really cover talking about shit he doesn't want to talk about with his best friend instead of asking him."

"You did _what_ , now?"

Bull chooses his words carefully, trying not to make the same mistake twice. "There's some shit in his life he didn't want to talk about. Past stuff, but it's still screwing with his head. And I talked to Max--his friend--instead of to him. And then I didn't tell him about it."

Krem stares at him for a second, then shakes his head. "You're the one who taught me not to do shit like that."

"It's not like I planned it that way," Bull says, hunching his shoulders defensively. "Max came to talk about something else, and we just ended up going where we shouldn't have gone." It'd be easy to say it's all Max's fault, but Bull knows he could have stopped the conversation at any time. Hell, if he hadn't asked those questions, the conversation never would have gone there in the first place.

"And the part where you didn't tell Dorian you'd been talking about him?'

"It never seemed like the right time to say something." Bull is cringing internally. If he was on the other side of this conversation, he'd be wearing exactly the same face Krem is wearing right now. "It was stupid, okay? I know it was stupid. But you asked, so there's the story. Can I have my office back?"

And fuck, now he's whining, or almost.

Krem settles in his chair, a clear "no" to Bull's request, and asks, "So I'm guessing he found out?"

"Yeah," Bull says. "Then he asked me to leave, so I left." Which had actually hurt less than Dorian's flinch when Bull tried to touch him, but that's not anything Krem needs to know.

"So what are you going to do?" Krem asks.

At least that's an easy question, even if Bull doesn't like the answer. "Call him. Hope he picks up." He glances at the clock, knows Dorian is almost certainly awake but not yet at work. "Hope I can make this up to him somehow."

###

After Bull leaves, Dorian goes upstairs and undresses slowly, staring around his bedroom at all the little signs of Bull's presence. Everywhere his looks, there's some reminder of Bull, and by the time he's finished brushing his teeth, the walls feel like they're closing in around him. He's never been claustrophobic, and his bedroom is hardly small, but he feels like he's locked in a tiny closet.

In the end, he sleeps in the guest room farthest from his own room. It's half the size and feels four times bigger.

He sleeps badly, waking up with his heart pounding a dozen times, and gets up a little after four rather than go through another round of nightmares that make no sense but are somehow terrifying anyway. The shower and the kitchen both hold too many reminders of Bull, and he escapes the house as soon as he can. That's another needle driving under his skin, that his house is no longer his sanctuary, but he doesn't have the energy to deal with it right now.

Work provides a number of distractions, none of them adequate. Endless client meetings are not what he needs right now, not when he prefers working alone even on his best days. Thirty years of social training keeps him from snapping at anyone, but only barely, and his head is pounding by lunchtime. Another client meeting, this time over lunch, rounds out the headache with a bout of nausea that leaves him sweating and chilled and barely able to focus on the conversation.

It's been fifteen years since he was grateful to his mother for anything, but right now, her training is ensuring he stays employed, so perhaps that's something.

When he returns from lunch, Minaeve gives him a concerned look. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Dorian says, and he doesn't wince at the reminder of Bull. Not visibly, at least, and per his mother, that's really all that matters. "Something I ate didn't agree with me."

"I told you not to let him pick the restaurant," she says cheerfully.

Dorian laughs appropriately and escapes into his office, shutting the door gently mainly because he very much wants to slam it. Not on Minaeve, just on the day in general. He wants to break things, tear and rip and smash whatever he can get his hands on, burn the papers on his desk and cut his suit into ribbons and take a sledgehammer to his car.

At the same time, he wants to crawl under his desk and hide, make himself so small he could maybe disappear.

And he wants to call Bull. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please come back, I didn't mean it._

He does none of those things. Instead, he leaves his phone in the desk drawer where it's been since he arrived at work this morning, and he answers his emails like he cares about anything except the way his stomach is heaving in time to the pounding in his head.

Around six in the evening, he makes himself check his phone. He has a dozen missed calls from Max, along with a series of increasingly confused and angry texts, ending about an hour ago with _CALL ME_.

There's only one missed call from Bull, and a single voicemail that has to be from him. However many times he calls, Max knows better than to leave messages.

Dorian puts his phone back in the drawer and works for another two hours before he can't stand it anymore. He yanks the drawer open and grabs his phone like he's about to throw it, then sits staring at it for a solid minute before he calls his voicemail and listens to the message.

"Dorian, it's Bull." Just the sound of his voice makes Dorian want to cry, and he bites the inside of his cheek as hard as he can. There's a long pause, so long Dorian wonders if his phone has died, then the message goes on: "Call me." Another agonizing pause, then, "I want to talk to you." And he's gone.

"If you'd like to listen to this message again, press seven," chirps a female voice, and Dorian, masochist that he is, presses seven, listening for god-knows-what in those three short sentences.

It's all barked out in Bull's sergeant's voice, like he's snapping orders at the phone. There's no real emotion in it, not even anger or frustration, much less affection.

Dorian listens to the message once more, then deletes it.

###

Bull keeps his phone on him as much as possible, and more than he should. The only time he leaves it in his office is when he has an appointment--the gym still needs to make money, even if his personal life is going down in flames--and as soon as each appointment is done, the first thing Bull does is check his messages. Not that there's ever anything from Dorian, but he keeps checking anyway.

As one day stretches into two, he checks his phone more often rather than less. It's in his hand all the time, or within easy reach when he absolutely has to set it down. Every time it buzzes, his heart jumps, and every time it turns out to be someone other than Dorian, his heart sinks a little lower. He tries to put on a happy face and not snap at everyone, but he's not sure he succeeds, and he's also not sure he cares.

His mood doesn't get any better when he arrives at work on Thursday morning to find Max parked in the visitor's chair in his office.

"Sorry, Chief," Skinner says as Bull scowls. "He's been there two hours, and he said he wasn't moving 'til you got here."

"Right," Bull mutters, letting his bag slide out of his fingers to settle on the floor behind the counter. "When's my first appointment?" Maybe he can stall long enough for Max to get bored and go away. He seems like the kind of guy who's got a short attention span, and after two hours of staring at the wall, he has to be close to the edge.

Skinner looks embarrassed. "At nine, but..." She shrugs and tilts her head in Max's direction. "It's with him."

Because of course it is. Bull rolls his shoulders and takes a deep breath, pulling in air until his chest aches, then letting it out slowly. Twice.

"Okay," he says, feeling marginally calmer. He even manages not to stomp his feet as he crosses to his office and steps inside.

He doesn't bother to sit down. Instead, he takes up station just inside the door, arms crossed over his chest.

"Okay," Bull says flatly as Max looks up at him. "You said you weren't leaving until I got here. Well, I'm here now, so you can go."

"Fuck you," Max says, low and fierce. He's pale, and there are dark circles under his eyes. "What the fuck is going on? And don't tell me you don't know."

Bull drums his fingers against his upper arm once, before he realizes what he's doing and stops. "Have you talked to Dorian?"

"I _tried_ ," Max says, loud enough that Skinner cranes her head around to look. "He won't call me back, and I swear to Christ I think he's living at the office right now, because I can't catch him at home, either. And I don't know what's _wrong_!"

His voice hasn't gotten any quieter, and now it's more than Skinner trying to catch a glimpse of what's going on. Reluctantly, Bull shuts the door, but he keeps his hand on it without moving away.

Max is giving him a look that's half begging and half pissed. "Please tell me he doesn’t think I fucked you, or some damn thing like that."

In any other circumstances, Bull would probably laugh. The best he can do right now is a tight smile. "Close, actually..."

"Of all the-"

"...and he's right."

Cut off mid-word, Max stares open-mouthed until he collects himself enough to say, "I'm reasonably sure I'd remember that."

"Let me refresh your memory," Bull says. For a smart guy, Max is really kind of stupid.

Which means Bull needs to be smart enough for both of them.

He changes direction slightly. "Here's what's going to happen," he says. Max's eyes narrow and his jaw sets, but he keeps his mouth shut. "I'm going to tell you one thing. Then you're going to leave, and if you have any more questions, you'll have to ask Dorian, because I'm done with this conversation."

"All right," Max says, icy enough to do Aquinea proud. "Tell me your one thing, and I'll decide if _I'm_ done with this conversation."

Bull considers pointing out that Max will have a hard time continuing it if Bull doesn't participate, but he doesn't want to turn this into a pissing contest. If he backs Max into a corner, there won't be any survivors from that confrontation.

"He doesn't think we fucked," Bull says quietly, deliberately pitching his voice down to remind himself to stay calm. "But do you remember the definition of cheating you gave me, the last time you were here?"

Max blinks, then his eyes go distant as he digs through his memories. "I think so, yes."

"Repeat it for me."

For a second, he thinks Max will refuse, but eventually he says, "It's giving away something your partner thinks is only for them."

"Good," Bull says. Max's eyes narrow as if he suspects Bull is patronizing him, and maybe he is, a little. Patronizing him is better than smacking him in the back of the head for being thick as a brick. "Now say 'friend' instead of 'partner,' and think about what we talked about last time."

It's almost amusing to watch the thoughts run across Max's face. He has his own masks, but his aren't nearly as good as Dorian's, and Bull knows the exact second he gets it.

"Rilienus?" Max demands. "This is about _Rilienus_?"

"I said I was done," Bull says. He puts his hand on the doorknob pointedly. "You want to talk about this more, you need to talk about it with Dorian."

It's on the tip of his tongue to say, "And ask him to call me," but he doesn't. Dorian will call when he's ready to talk.

Bull just hopes it's a question of when, and not if.

###

On Thursday night, Edric kicks Dorian out of the office at nine, despite all Dorian's protests that he still has work to do.

"You've got to be coming up on sixty hours this week, and it's not even Friday," Edric says. "You're going to burn yourself out."

"I'm fine," Dorian says.

"No, you're not," Edric says. "And I don't know how you could be. Have you gotten eight hours of sleep combined in the last two nights?"

"Yes," Dorian snaps. That he's counting hours spent in bed rather than hours actually spent dreaming is a minor detail he doesn't need to mention.

Edric's eyebrows go up, and he makes a skeptical noise. "I'm not sure I believe you, but fine. However much sleep you've been getting, you need more. I'm surprised Bull isn't sitting on you."

Only years of practice keep Dorian from saying something he'll regret. "He's been busy at the gym the last few nights."

"Ah," Edric says, looking sympathetic all of a sudden. "I know how that works. I have trouble sleeping when Malika's not home."

It adds an entirely new layer of awkward to a conversation that was already nearly unbearable. There are things Dorian doesn't need to know about his fellow partners, and their sleeping habits are definitely on that list.

The only way out of the conversation is to give in and leave, so Dorian does, dragging his feet as best he can without looking like a sulking child. Edric apparently doesn't trust him, either, because he escorts Dorian to his car and then waits until he's pulling out of the parking lot to get into his own car.

Dorian briefly considers pulling off somewhere and returning to work as soon as Edric has left, but he's already in his car, and it's all just too much effort. Easier to drive home than fight the heaviness in his limbs.

A heaviness that disappears in a rush of adrenaline when he realizes Max is camped out on his front step. Dorian sees him from halfway down the street and thinks seriously about turning around to find somewhere else to be until Max gives up.

The problem, of course, is that Max won't give up. Dorian doesn't doubt he's prepared to wait all night if necessary, and Dorian isn't prepared to move into a hotel room indefinitely.

After days of fitful sleep, being cornered doesn't help his already shitty mood. He stalks up the driveway and right into Max's personal space, jabbing his fingers into Max's chest.

"What the fuck do you want?" Dorian asks flatly.

"I want to talk to you!"

Dorian opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn't want to have this conversation at all, and definitely not on the front porch, but his only other option is to let Max into the house. A house that hasn't felt like Dorian's space since he told Bull to leave.

One more reason to be pissed and one less reason to let Max in, but it's the best of bad options, so Dorian jams his key in the lock and shoves the door open with his shoulder. "Come in," he says ungraciously.

Max is already following, as if it didn't even occur to him that Dorian wouldn't let him in, and as soon as the door is closed, he crowds into Dorian. "What the _fuck_?" Max demands. "How long have we been friends, and I had to go to _Bull_ to find out what the fuck is wrong?"

"Mmm, yes," Dorian says with false brightness. "Because that worked so well last time."

"Fuck you," Max says. "And fuck Bull, because he wouldn't tell me shit."

Dorian wants to say that at least one of them is trainable, but the words won't come.

"And I still don't really understand what the problem is!" Max adds, voice rising. "I can't believe you're pulling this 'If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you' bullshit, but fine. I admit it. I don't know why talking about Rilienus was such a big fucking deal. Now tell me, so I can make it better!"

"It's too late!" Dorian snaps. "You can't make it better unless you have a fucking time machine!"

"For fuck's sake, Dorian!" Max's hands are twisted in his own hair, pulling hard enough to distort his face. "Just explain it to me!"

Dorian is choking again, and the urge to throw his messenger bag down the hall is nearly overwhelming. Instead of giving in, he sets the bag carefully by the door, then turns to walk toward the living room.

Max's hand on his arm jerks him back around, so unexpected that Dorian stumbles. When he regains his balance, they're almost nose-to-nose, and Dorian freezes as Max's hand moves from his arm to the base of his skull, squeezing gently. Dorian's heart seems to stop, though they've stood like this a hundred times in the past, Max's hand on the back of his neck and their foreheads pressed together. It's always been a reminder that Max is ready to help him however he needs, whether that's by listening or by committing the occasional felony.

It's also never been sexual, though it has occurred to Dorian, briefly, that Max is close enough to kiss when they stand like this. The thought isn't brief, now. It burns its way across his brain, and his anger transforms it from a terrible idea to a brilliant one. He can destroy his relationship with Max, set fire to the ruins of his relationship with Bull, and be done with both of them forever.

He tilts his head, catching Max by surprise, and kisses him hard, tongue tracing the edge of Max's lower lip.

Max recoils so violently he bounces off the door. "What the _fuck_?" he demands. One of his hands is up between them while the fingers of the other touch his mouth gingerly, like Dorian punched him.

They stare at each other in silence, Max with his one hand in the air and Dorian clutching his own arms. The rage boiling in his chest mixes with the arousal, mutating into something ugly that Dorian would be ashamed of, if he looked at it head on.

"Can we not do that again?" Max asks at last. "Because I love you, but you and me together would be a disaster."

"That was the point," Dorian snaps, body humming with the need to step in again, push and push and push until Max walks away. His sense of self-preservation is strong enough--barely--to force him back a step, fingers digging into his upper arms as he says, "I think it's time for you to go."

"Please," Max whispers. "Tell me what's wrong, don't shut me out like this. I love you, you know I love you, I would never-"

"You did," Dorian says, cutting him off because every word Max says is dragging him down into the pain. At least when he's angry, he doesn't feel so helpless.

"I did _what_?" Max begs.

With thoughts of Rilienus so close to the surface, those words in that tone shock Dorian out of his rage. How many times did he ask the same question, pleading for any hint as to what he'd done wrong so he could make it right? How many times did Rilienus leave him hanging, exactly as confused and hurt as Max is now?

The anger comes back, but muted now, and without the anger to shield him, the pain is creeping in, too. He wants all of it to stop, and the old habits try to take over again, try to force everything down just to make this end. The anger is less sharp-edged now, easier to swallow, and he could do it, could wrap it up and stuff it in a box and make everything fine by pretending it is.

"I'm sorry." The words are nearly involuntary, and they scrape his throat raw.

Max stares at him. "I thought that was my line," he jokes weakly.

Too much, too much, too much, it's all too much, anger and pain and arousal and amusement. He turns toward the living room again, unable to face Max and unable to hold still, and this time, Max lets him go, following silently behind.

Dorian doesn't stop when they get there, pacing up and down the length of the room with his arms folded tightly over his chest. After a couple minutes of watching him from the doorway, Max steps cautiously into the room and takes a seat on the couch, his hands braced on his knees and his fingers flexing.

"I didn't mean to tell him about it," Max offers, after Dorian has made three complete circuits of the room. "I went to apologize, and we just ended up talking. He was worried about you."

Apologize?

"Apologize for what?" Dorian asks, pausing by the television. He's not sure he wants to know, but he can't bring himself to leave it alone.

Max looks guilty and embarrassed. "I might have said some inappropriate things to him."

"What? When?"

"At...ahhh...the cookout. Where he met Rilienus the first time."

Dorian waits, not entirely patiently, for Max to answer his question rather than talk around it.

He has to wait a while, but eventually Max says, "I threatened him. That if he cheated on you with Rilienus, I'd...ahhh...make sure he regretted it."

It's easy to imagine Max, oblivious to the size difference between himself and Bull, threatening death or worse. What's harder to imagine is Max apologizing for one of his grandiose gestures, especially without Dorian or his sister to strong-arm him into it. Maybe Max really is growing up.

The snort of laughter slips out before Dorian can stop it. He's still pissed, but the pain is less, tempered by his amusement. "You're insane," he says.

Max smiles tentatively. "But you knew that."

"I did," Dorian allows. He pinches the bridge of his nose, thumb rubbing over one eyebrow in a vain attempt to soothe away his headache. "So you threatened to kill him, and then what?"

Max makes a surprised noise, and Dorian drops his hand to glare. "I know you, I know that's what you did. I'm just impressed you were subtle enough that I didn't notice."

"You were off talking to someone," Max says, as if this is all perfectly natural, that he would be issuing death threats while Dorian was elsewhere.

"Of course," Dorian says, because for Max, it is. "And then what?"

"You came back," Max says. He hesitates, gaze drifting to the side. "You came back over to where we were sitting, and you looked worn out, and he...he saw it. He saw it, and he wanted to help, but he knew you well enough not to make a big deal out of it."

Dorian sifts through his memories of that afternoon for something other than the sick terror of _Please no, please not again_ that hit him when he looked up to find Rilienus talking to Bull. It takes him a moment, but then he remembers Bull's hand in his, and Bull's lips brushing the inside of his wrist once, briefly.

The memory hurts now, and it brings the anger back in force. Ice this time, instead of fire, chilling his words. "Apparently both of you know me so well that my presence isn't even required in conversations about my life."

"That's not fair," Max starts, then stops when Dorian takes a step toward him.

"That's not _fair_?" Dorian asks, so cold everything hurts. "You went to him, and you talked about Rilienus, and you talked about me, and you have the balls to complain about _fair_?"

"You told him about the conversion camp," Max protests.

It's just as well he's out of arm's reach, as is anything Dorian could easily pick up and throw at him. "Yes," Dorian says, voice cold and level. " _I_ did. My story, my choice. Not yours, not his."

Max is scowling again, his fingers picking at the edge of the couch cushion. "You did the same thing to him."

Dorian blinks, confusion interfering with the anger. "I did what?"

"You did the same thing to him," Max says, enunciating each word. "With his medals. You asked me instead of him. You probably googled them, too, even though you knew he didn't want you prying into it."

It's definitely a good thing there's nothing in easy reach that's small enough to throw. "Because talking to my friend about my boyfriend is somehow the same as my boyfriend talking to my friend about me?"

Max looks away, shoulders slumping. "No," he whispers to the arm of the couch.

The admission should make Dorian feel better, but it doesn't. All it does is block him in again, leaving him no acceptable way to vent his anger.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like that," Max says. "I just wanted to apologize for being an ass, and...and the conversation sort of went from there." He shifts, then adds defensively, "If _you_ would talk to people about shit, this wouldn't be an issue."

"Did you really just blame me for your thoughtlessness?" Dorian asks, coolly polite.

"I just don't get it!" Max bursts out. "Fine, yes, we shouldn't have talked about you, but you've been giving me the silent treatment for two fucking days! Bull, too, if the way he looked is anything to go by. And if we'd been talking about that fucking camp, I'd understand why you're so pissed, but it's not like anything that happened with Rilienus was a secret!"

Max is breathing hard now, glaring at Dorian, who regards him with a single raised eyebrow. "Are you finished?"

"For the moment," Max says, tilting his chin up.

"Do you really think," Dorian says, measuring each word, "that I wanted you to tell anyone about how stupid I was? It was bad enough you were all there when it happened. Was it too much to ask that I get a fresh start with Bull? You had to pick the single stupidest thing I've ever done and tell someone else? Tell _him_?"

Max is no longer glaring, his brows drawn down in confusion rather than anger. "Nobody thinks you were stupid," Max says. He's picking at the seam on the edge of the couch cushions, twisting thoughtlessly as the fabric. "Rilienus fooled all of us, not just you."

Dorian's own fingers flex before he stops them. "You didn't live with him every day. _I_ should have seen it."

"I'd think that living with him would make it harder to see, not easier."

"Don't fucking patronize me!" It hurts too much, pain driving deeper into his chest as the embarrassment returns. "I let him twist me around, and manipulate me, and while I appreciate that you've never brought up exactly how stupid I was, don't pretend you haven't thought it."

Max gathers himself to stand, then seems to think better of it, settling back and plucking at the couch cushions again. "I've _never_ thought that."

"'Bright boy'," Dorian says. "Isn't that what you call me? Only, I wasn't very bright when it came to him, was I?"

"Don't," Max says. He chokes for a second, throat working before he goes on in a low voice, "I never talked about Rilienus because you...you shut me down the first few times, and I was mad at myself for missing all the signs, and so I thought...I thought _you_ were mad at me, too."

Now it's Dorian's turn to stare in confusion. "Why would I be mad at you?"

"Because I should have seen it!" Max's fingers are curled in a fist now, so tightly it's a wonder he isn't tearing the fabric on the cushion. "I should have seen it, and I should have done something!"

Dorian presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, pushing back the tears that are suddenly burning there. "I was never mad at you," he whispers.

The touch on his arm is startling, and Dorian drops his hands to find Max standing in front of him. He looks hesitant, in a way he's never been when it comes to physical contact. His hugs have always been thoughtless, instinctive, as if he can't imagine not showing his affection. It's one of the things Dorian has always loved about him, those careless touches that are as much a part of him as his over-protectiveness.

Dorian winces internally. "I'm not going to kiss you again," he says, trying to make a joke of it.

"Thank Christ for that," Max mutters.

Before Dorian can respond, Max is pulling him into a hug, wrapping both arms tightly around him. "I'm sorry," he says against the side of Dorian's head. It makes Dorian smile, despite everything: it's so very Max, that it's taken this long to say those words. "I just thought...I thought I could make up for not seeing what Rilienus was like. If Bull knew, then maybe he wouldn't hurt you by stepping in it."

The hug feels unexpectedly awkward, but Dorian puts his arms around Max and leans in, resting his forehead on Max's shoulder. "I never blamed you," he says. "It wasn't your fault, it was mine. You didn't live in it every day, and I did." He rocks his head back and forth, pressing the fabric of Max's shirt harder against his skin. "I just hate the thought of anyone knowing I was that stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid," Max whispers. He draws in a deep, shaky breath, settling a little more of his weight against Dorian. "Can we make a deal?"

"What kind of deal?" Dorian asks warily.

"If I work on not being mad at me," Max says, "can you work on not thinking you were stupid?"

Dorian laughs weakly, hugging him tighter. "I'll work on it." The hug still doesn't feel quite right, but maybe it's better than it was.

###

On Friday evening, Bull is shutting off his computer when Krem comes into his office and closes the door.

"I really don't want to talk about it," Bull says before Krem can open his mouth.

"I noticed," Krem says with a hint of sarcasm. "But not talking about it isn't working for you."

"What is there to talk about?" Bull demands. The computer has finished powering down, but Krem is standing between him and the door. "I told you what happened, it's not like anything's changed."

"Did you try calling him?"

"What the fuck do you think?" The words come out too loud. Bull takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before he says, "Of course I called him. He didn't answer. And yes, I left a fucking message."

Krem covers his eyes with one hand. "Of course you did." He sounds pained, which Bull thinks is completely unfair. "Let me guess, the message went something like this." Voice pitched artificially low, he holds his hand by his head with an imaginary phone. "Dorian, it's Bull. Call me." He makes a clicking noise and mimes hanging up an old-fashioned phone.

Bull feels a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. Yeah, Krem knows him a little too well. "Something like that," he admits.

"Fucking hell, Chief," Krem mutters. "I swear to god, I'm revoking your phone privileges. You're not allowed to talk on the phone without supervision."

"Hey," Bull objects, trying to joke. "I'm not that bad. I hardly ever start my emails ALCON anymore."

Krem's mouth twitches. "Well, that's a start, I guess. Your phone manners still suck, though."

All Bull's humor drains away, and he tosses his pens into the desk drawer with more force than necessary. "I might have been a little tense when I left the message, okay? And what the fuck was I supposed to say?"

"I don't know," Krem says, the sarcasm back in force. "Maybe, 'I'm sorry'? That's always a good start."

Bull had thought about it, but he'd felt weird leaving something like that in a message. Like breaking up with someone by voicemail, and fuck, he really didn't need to think about break ups right now. "I want to say it to him, not to his voicemail."

"Have you tried calling him again?"

"No," Bull says firmly. "I'm not going to be that guy." He shuts his desk drawer with exaggerated care and steps out from behind the desk, hoping Krem will take the hint and get out of the way.

Krem just stares at him like he's lost his mind. "You don't want to be what guy? The guy who wants to apologize? Or maybe the guy who doesn't actually want to be single again?"

"Fuck you," Bull says with maybe a little too much sincerity.

"Fuck you, too," Krem says, but he sounds cheerful. "Answer the question. What guy is it that you don't want to be?"

"I fucked up," Bull says. It's an effort not to be sarcastically patient, but he does try. "I'm not going to bug the shit out of him until he talks to me just to shut me up." From everything Bull's heard, Rilienus did more than enough of pushing and pushing until Dorian gave in. Which isn't something Bull can say to Krem, but that doesn't make it less true.

"So you called him once." Krem raises his eyebrows, looking skeptical. " _Once._ "

"I called him," Bull says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You do know that the rest of the world sees one phone call as a fucking _token_? Something you did so you can say you did something?"

That's true as far as it goes, but once he adds Rilienus to the mix, Bull's not sure he knows which way is up anymore. "You think I should call him again."

"Well, duh," Krem says. "I mean, I'm not saying turn all creepy-stalker and call him seventy-three times a day, but a second call isn't the end of the world as we know it."

"Admitting you're right might be," Bull says, trying again to turn the conversation light.

Krem looks unimpressed. "If you admit I'm right, then why aren't you doing it?"

Because he's not convinced Krem _is_ right, not in this specific case. "It's a little more complicated than that," Bull says finally. His arms are crossed so tight the muscles are starting to burn, but he can't make himself relax.

"Really." Krem has gone from skeptical to outright disbelief.

"Yes, really," Bull says. His temper tries to flare, and he squashes it. "You're just going to have to trust me on this," because Bull isn't stupid enough to spill Dorian's life story to someone Dorian barely knows, "but yeah. It's complicated."

Krem rolls his shoulders and takes a deep breath, and Bull feels a weird twinge in his chest. Something else he taught Krem when they were together in the army, and watching him do it practically forces Bull to mimic it. His heartbeat slows by some fractional degree, and his fingernails stop leaving dents in his upper arms.

"Okay, Chief," Krem says. "Okay. It's complicated. You would know, and I believe you. But is not calling really going to make it less complicated?"

"Fuck if I know," Bull mutters. "And that's the problem."

"What is it you always tell me?" Krem asks. "Not choosing is a choice?"

He's tempted to tell Krem to fuck off, because god. It really is annoying to have his words thrown back at him, and why do people keep doing that lately?

"Okay," he says instead. "I got it. Go away and let me think about it."

Krem grins, knowing he's won, and then he shocks Bull speechless by hugging him. It's a bro hug, quick and awkward, and it's over before Bull gets a chance to return it, but Krem doesn't look like he expects any reciprocation. In fact, he looks kind of embarrassed, so Bull stays put.

"You need anything else before I head out?" Krem asks briskly, obviously trying to return the conversation to familiar territory.

Bull is just as glad to retreat with him. "Nah, I'm right behind you. See you Sunday."

"Sunday," Krem calls, already out the door.

After he's gone, Bull stands by his desk for a long time, one hand curled around his phone in his pocket. It's a little on the late side to call, and besides, Dorian is probably tired. Is it really a good idea for either of them to have this conversation tonight? Tomorrow morning would be better. Except tomorrow morning, he's booked solid, so maybe tomorrow afternoon...

That's the point where Bull realizes what he's doing and yanks his phone out of his pocket with a disgusted noise. If this call ends with Dorian breaking things off, fine. Bull owes him an apology either way, and putting this off isn't going to make the silence any easier to break.

The phone rings five times, long enough that for a second, when the line clicks open but there's no immediate sound, Bull thinks he's gotten Dorian's voicemail again.

Then Dorian says quietly, "Yes?" and Bull lets out the breath he didn't even know he was holding.

"I'm sorry," Bull says quickly, because whatever else they need to say to each other, that's the most important part.

Dorian doesn't say anything, and Bull can't help but fill the silence. "I was curious, and I wasn't thinking. And I know I should have told you about it, but please don't think I was hiding it from you. I just didn’t know how to bring it up, or if it was better to let it go."

"All right," Dorian says. His voice is neutral, and Bull doesn't know what that means.

"Just so you know," Bull adds, "Max came to see me yesterday. I told him he needed to talk to you, not me."

"I know."

No way to tell from his tone whether that's good or bad. Max has been Dorian's friend a long time, so Bull assumes they've learned to communicate, but Max also didn't strike him as the kind of guy who's good at apologizing. "Okay."

"We talked," Dorian says.

Bull wonders if Max's conversation with Dorian went any better than this one seems to be going. "Okay."

The silence that follows is excruciating, and once again, it's Bull who breaks it. "Dorian. Tell me what you need from me." The next part hurts to say, but he makes himself say it anyway. "Do you want me to just leave you alone?"

"Is that what _you_ want?" Dorian asks. He tries to sound like the answer doesn't matter, but his voice cracks at the end.

Bull closes his eye. "No. Not even a little bit. But if it's what you want, I'm...I will. I'd understand."

There's another pause, and this time, Bull waits it out, lets Dorian answer without being rushed.

When Dorian does finally speak, his voice is back to its earlier, precise calm. "I'm still angry."

"You have every right to be," Bull says with absolute sincerity, trying to kill the hope rising in his chest. Those aren't the words of someone who's ending a relationship, but they aren't exactly reassuring, either.

"Are you finished with work today?" Dorian asks.

"Yeah." Hope wins over his attempts to squash it, even though Dorian's tone is still cool and distant.

"You could meet me here."

"At your house?"

"Yes."

Bull hesitates, wanting to say agree, but... "Do you want to see me?"

"More than I don't want to," Dorian says, the ghost of a laugh in his voice.

"Okay," Bull says, relaxing his grip on the phone. "I'll see you in a bit?"

"See you in a bit," Dorian echoes, and cuts the connection.

Bull just stands there breathing for a moment, phone resting in his hand and his heart pounding. _Don't fuck this up,_ he thinks at himself, then adds, _Again._

There are just so many ways to do exactly that, and who knows how many more he hasn't thought of.

Well, however many potential ways there are, not showing up at Dorian's is probably at the top of the list. Bull stuffs his phone in his pocket and heads out, calling a hasty goodbye to Skinner without waiting to hear if, or how, she responds. For all he knows, she could have told him the building was on fire and he wouldn't have noticed.

He doesn't notice much about the drive to Dorian's, either, all his attention focused on what will happen when he gets there. Dorian's "I'm controlling my voice so carefully I might as well just scream" tone doesn't actually limit the possibilities. Screaming is definitely on the table, once they're face-to-face and in private. Or will he try to pretend everything is fine, cram his emotions down the way he has in the past and try to make this all about sex?

Given a choice, Bull will take the screaming any day. He doesn't know what he'll do if Dorian meets him at the door naked.

It's not an issue, thank god: when Dorian opens the door, he's fully dressed, from polo shirt to khakis, all the way down to the loafers on his feet. They're what Bull thinks of as Dorian's Saturday work clothes, what he wears when he actually goes in to his office on the weekend, as opposed to working from his laptop at home or in Bull's office.

Only, it's Friday, not Saturday, and Dorian never goes in to the office during the week in anything less than a suit and tie. There are none of the wrinkles Bull would expect from clothes that have been worn for hours, and Dorian's hair is slightly damp from the shower. Which means there's a good chance this is what Dorian put on when he knew Bull was coming over, and the deliberate distance that puts between them is painful.

"Hey," Bull says softly, when Dorian just stands in the doorway with his hand on the knob and every one of his masks firmly in place.

Bull wants to ask if he can come in, but the words stick in his throat. This house has always been Dorian's space, and suddenly it seems like a terrible idea, Bull coming here. They should do this somewhere else, somewhere Dorian doesn't have to feel like his home is being invaded by someone he can't trust.

Those words stick, too, and before Bull can unstick them, Dorian steps back and says, "Come in."

He steps back as Bull steps forward, leaving Bull to close the door while Dorian puts space between them without moving out of the hallway.

Standing in Dorian's foyer isn't Bull's first choice for places to have this conversation, but oh well. "I'm sorry," he says, quietly but with force. "I fucked up, and I'm sorry."

Whatever reaction Bull's expecting, it isn't for Dorian's face to crumple in slow motion. Eyebrows first, drawing in on what could be a frown, mouth going thin and tight, except then he sucks his lower lip between his teeth and the corners of his mouth turn further down. Bull catches a glimpse of tears at the corners of his eyes before he squeezes them shut.

Bull clenches his hands into fists, stuck without a clue about what's the right thing to do here. He's never forgotten Dorian's "Can I touch you?" from their second time together, and he knows a lot about the kind of relationship that leads people to ask that question. What he doesn't know is whether that means his touch is welcome right now, or whether he should wait on some signal. Control is so important to Dorian, and Bull doesn't want to take that away any more than he already has. If Dorian is trying to regain his composure, and Bull wrecks that by touching him...

Dorian takes a half step forward. It's more of a stagger, like he lost his balance, but there's no mistaking the second half step as anything but deliberate. His eyes are still closed, his hands curled into fists to match Bull's, and he's shaking as the first tear slips out and tracks down his cheek.

One long step is all Bull needs, then his arms are around Dorian and Dorian's hands are fisted in his shirt, his face buried between them and pressing hard enough that Bull's chest aches under his forehead. He doesn't care, wouldn't care if the pain was a hundred times worse, because it still wouldn't hurt as much as seeing Dorian fall apart like this. It's too much like the night after Halward's death, Dorian shaking and crying without making a single sound.

"I'm _so_ sorry," Bull whispers. He wants to beg Dorian to stop crying, but that's pure selfishness, so he just holds on tighter, rocking slowly back and forth.

"I hate this," Dorian says thickly. "I miss you, I want you here with me, but I'm still so fucking _mad_ , and I don't know how to stop."

"You don't have to stop," Bull says. "Or at least, you don't have to stop until you're ready. You've got the right to be mad at me. I'm not saying you have to stop, just let me stay so I can make it up to you."

"I'm sorry," Dorian says.

Fucking hell. Bull closes his eye before he starts crying, too. "I'm the one who fucked up." Well, him and Max, but Bull's not going to say anything that sounds like he's trying to weasel out of responsibility for this mess. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."

"Max," Dorian starts, then has to swallow hard. "Talking to him...it made me realize, I did to him, to you, what Rilienus used to do to me. I was angry, and I froze you both out. I didn't even tell Max why." His shoulders heave, a sob that still doesn't make any noise. "And I just want to be done being mad, because I hate thinking I'm like Rilienus, and I hate that I did that, and I hate feeling like this!"

Personally, Bull thinks that if the silent treatment was the worst thing Dorian learned from Rilienus, they wouldn't be having this conversation. "You're allowed to be mad," Bull says. He has a feeling he's going to be saying it a lot, but he can handle that. "And you're allowed to say that you need some space to be mad by yourself."

"He did it to me all the time," Dorian says into Bull's shirt. "Rilienus. He would shut me out when he was angry."

Bull has never in his life wanted to hurt someone as much as he wants to hurt Rilienus right now. "There's a difference between being an emotionally abusive asshole, and telling someone you need time by yourself." Okay, more honest than he meant to be, but too late now.

It gets a weak laugh from Dorian, at least.

Heartened, Bull runs a hand up Dorian's back to comb gentle fingers through his hair. "If you need space, it's fine. I mean, I'd rather be here with you, but only if you want me to be." He wants to kiss the top of Dorian's head, but the difference in their heights is too great and Bull doesn't want to loosen his hold enough to bend down. "Or you can be mad at me while I'm here. I'm not going to tell you you're wrong, or try to talk you out of it, or some shit like that."

Dorian shudders again and tries to curl himself tighter against Bull's chest. "I didn't mean to shut you out, not for this long." He doesn't sound like he's done, so Bull stays quiet, fingertips rubbing at his scalp. "But every time I thought about calling...I didn't know what to say. What I might say." His fingers loosen on Bull's t-shirt, but only long enough for him to shift his grip down a little. "I used to be good at letting go of my anger, and I'm sor-"

"Dorian." Bull keeps his voice level with an effort, hand stretching wide to cradle the back of Dorian's head. "Speaking of differences, there's a difference between letting go of anger, and cramming it all down because you think you're not allowed to be mad."

No laugh this time, just Dorian pressing in closer, body jerking with sobs that make less noise than the occasional wet sniff. Bull keeps his eye closed and sways from side to side, rocking them both gently.

When Dorian is down to the occasional tremor, Bull murmurs, "Upstairs?"

Dorian nods without moving away. After a moment, Bull shrugs internally and scoops him up, one arm under his knees and the other behind his shoulders. Dorian makes a soft noise of protest but then immediately tucks his head into the hollow of Bull's shoulder, so Bull decides it's probably okay.

The stairs are a little tricky, and the upstairs hallway wouldn't be wide enough if Dorian wasn't curled forward, but at least the bedroom floor is clear. A little too clear, Bull thinks as he sets Dorian down on the still-made bed. They've been together long enough that Bull knows Orana comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and that Dorian doesn't make the bed on the days in between.

Yesterday, Max made a comment about Dorian sleeping at the office, but Bull assumed that was a joke. As he coaxes Dorian to sit on the edge of the bed, he looks at the room from the corner of his eye and feels a little sick at the thought that maybe Max was exactly right.

The bathroom, when he ducks in for a washcloth, doesn't do anything to reassure him: the towels are all neatly folded on the bars, and Dorian's toothbrush is missing. Bull doesn't make eye contact with his reflection as he runs cool water over a washcloth, and when he gets back to the bedroom, he keeps his mouth shut on any questions about where, or whether, Dorian has been sleeping.

"Here we go," Bull says instead, holding the washcloth out to Dorian, who keeps his face turned down even as he takes it. "I'm going to go lock the doors and turn off the lights, then I'll be right back, okay?"

Dorian nods and wipes at his face with one corner of the washcloth. "Okay," he whispers.

It doesn't take Bull long to lock the front door and check the others, but on the way back, he pauses at the top of the stairs to look at the doors on either side of the hallway. Office, guestroom, bathroom, guestroom. All four doors are closed, which is normal, but Bull has a sudden horrible suspicion he knows exactly where Dorian has been sleeping. A quick peek in the guestroom closest to the stairs--and farthest from Dorian's bedroom--shows him an unmade bed and a stack of papers on the bedside table. Dorian's toothbrush is in the guest bathroom, along with a damp towel and Dorian's razor.

Bull would feel less like shit if Dorian _had_ been sleeping at the office.

He doesn't say anything when he gets back to Dorian's bedroom, just strips them both down and gets them under the covers. As soon as the lights are out and they're both horizontal, Dorian wraps himself around Bull, his face once more pressed into the center of Bull's chest. Bull settles himself a little lower so he can rest his cheek on the top of Dorian's head and works on putting himself to sleep.

 


	30. Kiss You Like Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is how we heal.  
> I will kiss you like forgiveness. You  
> will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms  
> will bandage and we will press promises  
> between us like flowers in a book.  
> I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat  
> on your skin. I will write novels to the scar  
> of your nose. I will write a dictionary  
> of all the words I have used trying  
> to describe the way it feels to have finally,  
> finally found you.
> 
> And I will not be afraid  
> of your scars.
> 
> Clementine von Radics, "Mouthful of Forever"
> 
> ******************************************************
> 
>  **If the last thing you remember is Bull leaving,** you're going to want to back up a chapter. :) AO3's notification system was down when I posted the previous chapter.

Every time Dorian so much as twitches, Bull jerks awake, heart beating too fast until he can orient himself and remind his body that an adrenaline rush isn't helping anything. By the time he relaxes after each jolt, Dorian has twitched again, starting the whole thing over.

Around three-thirty, Bull gives up on sleep and just lies there listening to Dorian breathe. He hasn't moved away in the night, and the steady rise and fall of his chest under Bull's arm is reassuring. They're here together, and that's a start. Bull can handle just about anything else, now that Dorian isn't shutting him out.

Close as they are, Bull knows the second Dorian wakes up: his body stiffens, and his breathing stutters once. It hurts almost as much as seeing him cry last night, the way he pulls back as soon as he remembers where he is and who he's with. It's a sharp contrast to the way he normally snuggles closer.

"Morning," Bull says, trying not to let any of that show in his voice. "It's not even four yet, if you want to sleep a little more."

"I'm awake," Dorian says, too clearly for someone who was asleep fifteen seconds ago. Bull suspects he just got his own hit of adrenaline.

"Okay," Bull says, because he can't think of anything better. Whether or not Dorian goes back to sleep, Bull needs to get up if he's going to make it to work on time, but the irrational part of him is afraid to move. If he lets go of Dorian, is all of this going to disappear again?

On the bedside table, his alarm beeps and startles both of them. Bull rolls over to shut it up, wishing he'd thought to turn it off earlier but not sure how he could have done that without waking Dorian.

"Well," Dorian says brightly. "I'm definitely awake now." Bull can hear him throwing back the blankets, the mattress shifting as he sits up. "Breakfast?"

"I'm good," Bull says, looking over his shoulder. Dorian is sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to Bull, his hands braced on his knees. "Really, you can go back to sleep."

"Unlikely," Dorian murmurs as he heaves himself to his feet. "Go shower. I'll start some breakfast."

The thought of Dorian getting up at four in the morning on a Saturday to make him breakfast isn't doing anything for Bull's guilt levels, but he can't decide if it's worse to argue or worse to let him. He doesn't want Dorian doing things for him, not like this, not when Bull is the one who screwed up. On the other hand, trying to override Dorian when he didn't even ask Bull's opinion isn't a great idea, either.

Shit. He thought the dithering part of this was over. Turns out, he's just going to dither over a new set of choices.

While he's still working on that, Dorian gets up and goes looking for a pair of sweatpants, and Bull gives up on arguing. Whatever the right choice is, Dorian isn't giving him the option, so he might as well just go shower.

It feels weird to shower by himself in Dorian's bathroom, even though he's done it plenty of times before. Sometimes Dorian joins him, but sometimes he stays in bed, or goes downstairs to make breakfast. Better than half the time, Bull is alone in Dorian's shower, so why does it feel weird this morning?

Probably because everything feels weird this morning: weird and fragile and uncomfortable.

It's not any better when he sits down at the table, though on the surface, everything is normal. He has a giant stack of French toast in front of him, a fresh bottle of syrup at his elbow, and Dorian at the other end of the table with his mug of coffee. The silence between them is heavy, though, weighing him down and killing his appetite.

He eats half as much as usual and still feels like he ate too much, the food a heavy lump in his stomach. As he's picking at his last slice, he asks, "You going in to work today?"

"For a few hours," Dorian says. It isn't quite the voice he uses on his mother, but it isn't warm, either.

Despite the uninviting tone, Bull says, "You could come by the gym this afternoon. Keep me company in my office, with the door shut."

A smile flickers across Dorian's face and is gone. "I can do that," he says, voice marginally warmer than it was.

Bull will call that a victory, and his stomach settles a little as he carries his plate into the kitchen. He calls it an ever bigger victory when Dorian follows him, fingers brushing over his back on the way to the coffee pot. Reassured by the touch, Bull turns away from the sink to catch his wrist, holding it lightly enough that Dorian can pull away if he wants.

Instead of pulling away, Dorian turns with the touch, letting himself be drawn in until Bull can press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, his mouth lingering so he can breathe in the smell of Dorian's skin.

Dorian sighs, a sound that could mean anything, but he steps closer, twisting his arm gently out of Bull's grasp to wrap it around Bull's waist instead. Bull lets out a sigh of his own as he puts both arms around Dorian and rests his cheek on the top of Dorian's head. The tension is still there, still humming between them, but it's eased off a little, and that's enough for now.

###

At work, Bull gets the morning mostly to himself, nothing to think about except personal training appointments and making sure people put the weights back on the racks when they're done. It's peaceful despite the noise, a little time away from everything that's been happening, and it gives him a chance to re-center himself.

Which is good, because when Krem walks in at quarter to ten, the first thing he does is plant himself in the center of Bull's office and demand, "Well?"

"Aren't you off today?" Bull asks, not sure if he's amused or irritated.

"Was," Krem says. "I switched with Dalish." He looks at Bull and makes a little hurry-up movement with his hand. "Sooo...?"

"I called him," Bull says, barely restraining an eyeroll. "And we talked last night."

"And?"

"And it's none of your business," Bull says as gently as he can. "We're working on it."

"So he didn't just throw you out." Krem smirks briefly, probably at the thought of Dorian physically throwing Bull. "Metaphorically, anyway."

This time, Bull doesn't bother to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "No, he didn't throw me out. Metaphorically or otherwise. We talked, we've got more talking to do, and seeing as talking about him behind his back was my first mistake in all this, I'm not talking about it with you anymore."

"Fair enough." Krem rocks his head from side to side, popping his neck. "Anything special going on today?"

"Same old, same old," Bull says, relieved to talk about something as mundane as the gym. "Do a pass for towels, make sure there's some out there, but otherwise, nothing's on fire right now."

"Will do, Chief." Krem turns away and almost trips over Dorian, who's appeared in the doorway when neither of them was looking.

"Is now a bad time?" Dorian asks. His face is set on polite mode, giving nothing away, and Bull runs frantically back over his conversation with Krem, wondering if he said anything stupid.

"No, it's fine," Krem says, before Bull can get his shit together. "I was on my way out."

Dorian looks past him at Bull, eyebrows cocked, and Bull waves at his visitor's chair. "My office is your office," he says grandly. Then he adds, "Only smaller, and with no windows."

"And without an assistant to file the paperwork," Dorian murmurs, but there's a smile at the corners of his mouth.

"It's his day off," Bull says, straight-faced.

Dorian snorts out a laugh and finally steps into the office, inching around Krem in the limited space to settle in the visitor's chair.

"Have fun," Krem says by way of goodbye, closing the door pointedly on his way out.

Dorian glances at the closed door, then back at Bull, then back at the door. "I told you," he says. "It's all in establishing a precedent."

Bull relaxes back into his chair and grins. "Lawyers know all about that, I guess."

"Of course we do," Dorian says, unzipping his bag. "All those years of schooling have to be good for something besides making ridiculous amounts of money."

"Though the ridiculous amounts of money make a nice consolation prize," Bull says.

Dorian sets his laptop on his knees and pops the lid open, looking over it at Bull with a smile that's a little strained at the edges. "But only a consolation prize, you understand."

"Of course," Bull agrees, watching Dorian pull out a stack of papers and colonize a corner of the desk. His movements are stiff, like a B-grade actor over-playing his part, but he's here and the least Bull can do is pretend he doesn't notice. "You need anything?" he asks.

"I'm fine," Dorian says distractedly. It's clear his thoughts are already on his papers, and Bull grins to himself, relieved by how normal it is.

The only abnormal thing about it, really, is that Dorian is here before lunchtime, and the reason for that becomes clear when Bull sticks his head in after his eleven-thirty appointment to find Dorian tapping his papers into a single stack, the laptop already back in its bag.

"Got a meeting?" Bull asks, only half joking. As much work as Dorian does on the weekends, it wouldn't surprise him if Lavellan & Cadash scheduled meetings on Saturdays.

"Only with my mother," Dorian says, his voice back to blandly polite. "She called this morning. After you left. We're to do lunch again, much to our mutual excitement."

"You want company?" Bull asks before he can think, then winces internally. He's got a whole lot of stuff on his calendar today, and while he'll clear it for Dorian gladly, it won't do anything good for the gym.

"I'll be fine," Dorian says politely. "I imagine you have quite a number of appointments today."

"I don't mind," Bull starts, then stops when Dorian frowns.

"I'll be fine," Dorian repeats with more force. "It's just lunch."

"Okay," Bull says. He's not sure what that tone means, except that he shouldn't push. "You can just leave your stuff, you know. Someone'll be at the counter, it's not like anyone can walk off with it." And if his laptop is here, then Dorian himself will have to come back.

Dorian's frown deepens, his eyes jumping from Bull to the papers in his hands before he says reluctantly, "All right."

Whatever the source of his reluctance, it doesn't stop him from giving Bull a kiss on his way by. The kiss isn't anything wild, but it isn't perfunctory, either. His mouth lingers on Bull's half a second longer than necessary, and his body presses in, warm and close.

###

Bull is in the middle of an appointment when Dorian comes back, so he's stuck watching from across the gym as Krem and Dorian exchange a few words before Dorian disappears into Bull's office. No way to tell from this distance how he's doing, and Bull struggles to keep his mind on the woman running on the treadmill in front of him.

As soon as she's done, Bull heads straight for his office. Dorian is bent over his laptop with a piece of paper in one hand, tapping the edge of the page against his cheek as he thinks. The look he gives Bull is distracted for a moment, then he blinks and smiles tentatively.

"How'd it go?" Bull asks.

Dorian's smile vanishes like it was never there. "The same as last time," he says, straightening up and stretching his shoulders back. "We made painfully awkward conversation for ninety minutes until we were both free to go. It was thrilling."

"Sounds like," Bull says. He watches Dorian roll his shoulders and his neck for another couple of seconds, then offers, "You want a back rub? Bending over like that's hell on your neck."

"I'm fine," Dorian says, in the same tone he used earlier when Bull offered to come with him to lunch. He rolls his neck one last time and drops the paper onto the stack beside him. "Have _you_ eaten?"

Bull shifts uncomfortably. He really wishes Dorian would stop trying to feed him, but he can't exactly say that. "I've got another appointment in ten minutes." That's safe enough, and as a bonus, it's even true. "I'll grab something after that."

Dorian nods, his gaze falling to his laptop screen before he catches himself and looks back at Bull. "Will I be in the way if I work in here? I know I'm not usually here all day."

"Nah, it's fine," Bull says, like the question isn't painful. It's been a while since Dorian asked before setting up camp in his office. "Nobody comes in here unless they're looking for me. Krem says they're all afraid a stack of papers'll fall on them or something." He waves a hand vaguely at the papers that have accumulated everywhere. One of these days he's going to get around to filing all this shit, but not today. "You can take over all the flat surfaces you can find."

The corner of Dorian's mouth turns up slightly. "So...this corner of your desk, then?"

"Just about," Bull says, smiling back. For a second, the awkwardness disappears, and there's just Dorian smiling at him like it's any other day, like there isn't this huge weight hanging over them.

"Hey, Chief!" Krem yells from the counter. "Got a second?"

Dorian looks back at his laptop, his face returning to blank politeness. "I'll be fine," he says. "I've got plenty to keep me busy."

"You'll be here when I get back?" Bull asks. He doesn't even know where the words come from, because it's not like he thinks Dorian is going to pull a disappearing act, but he's having trouble tearing himself away.

"I'll be here." Dorian doesn't look up, and the angle hides his face, giving Bull no clue as to what he's thinking.

"Chief?" Krem calls.

"Coming!" Bull calls back. He takes one last look at the top of Dorian's head, then goes to see what Krem needs.

It's an irate customer--because of course it is--and by the time Bull's got that settled, his next appointment has already been waiting for five minutes. At least she seems more sympathetic than irritated, but it doesn't give Bull a chance to check on Dorian one last time.

Apparently Dorian is checking up on him, though, because Bull gets back to his office an hour later to find a takeout bag on the desk. Dorian is bent over his laptop, frowning in concentration at the screen, but there's something about the way he sits that tells Bull he's not as absorbed in his work as he seems.

Bull can feel Dorian's attention on him as he opens the takeout bag and looks at the white styrofoam containers inside. There's no logo on the bag or its contents, but the smell is all the clue Bull needs. Thai, and he'd bet money it's from the place by Dorian's office, which is twenty minutes away.

"You didn't have to," Bull says. It smells amazing, and his mouth is already watering. At the same time, his stomach is clenching at the thought of Dorian driving forty minutes to get him lunch.

"I wanted to," Dorian says, the words clipped off, his gaze still fixed on his laptop screen.

"You don't need to do stuff like this," Bull says. "I'd've grabbed a sandwich or something in a bit."

"And now you don't have to," Dorian says. He shrugs one shoulder without looking up. "Eat it or don't, it's fine by me. I wanted Thai, and I just thought that I might as well bring some back for you."

Which is the point where Bull realizes he's being an ungrateful asshole.

Fuck.

There isn't a lot of room between Dorian and the desk, so Bull has to wedge himself in awkwardly, his joints popping as he kneels. Dorian's knuckles are white on the edges of his laptop, and he resists for a second when Bull tries to take it away. Just for a second, though, and then he lets Bull have it.

He's looking off to one side, shoulders set and face blank, when Bull straightens from setting the laptop out of the way.

"Hey," Bull says quietly, brushing his fingertips across Dorian's cheek, applying gentle pressure until Dorian finally turns to meet his eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." His voice is stiff, his masks in place.

Bull leans forward and kisses him once, lightly. "You surprised me, that's all." He smiles, wanting it clear that he's teasing. "I mean, when I left, I thought I'd need a crowbar to get you out of that chair at closing time, and I come back to find you've been all over hell and gone when I wasn't looking."

Dorian snorts. "A twenty minute drive hardly counts as 'all over hell and gone.'"

"Lawyers," Bull says sadly.

Dorian cracks a smile, so Bull kisses him again, and this time, Dorian tips his chin up to make it easier. Encouraged, Bull kisses him a third time, and a fourth. On the fifth, Dorian's lips are parted, and Bull licks the top one, tracing it with his tongue until Dorian makes a frustrated noise and presses forward, mouth opening wider. His hands are on Bull's shoulders now, hot through the t-shirt, fingers digging into the muscles as his tongue slides against Bull's.

After the strain and the distance of the last week, being so close wipes out the rest of the world. It doesn't matter that he's got another appointment in fifteen minutes, or that someone could walk in at any second. All he cares about is the real, physical proof that Dorian is here, that he wants to be here, that he's going to stay.

Without any input from his conscious mind, his hands tug at Dorian's shirt, pulling it free so Bull can touch him, can feel his skin with nothing between them. Part of him is hesitating, aware that all those half-serious jokes about fucking in this office are just that--jokes--and they don't mean Dorian actually _wants_ this, but then Dorian is off the chair and in his lap, ass grinding down against his dick, and Bull stops paying attention to that voice because Dorian's hands are as frantic as his.

They get in each other's way as often as not, Dorian shoving at the waistband of Bull's shorts as Bull fights with Dorian's zipper, but it's just one more thing that doesn't matter as soon as he gets his hand on Dorian's cock. Dorian makes a noise that's almost too loud and breaks the kiss to bury his face in Bull's neck even as his own hand closes around Bull's dick, stroking roughly.

No lube, no subtlety, no patience: it hurts, but it's not the kind of pain that makes Bull want to stop. Instead it makes him thrust up into Dorian's hand harder and faster. Too fast, really, he's already embarrassingly close, but Dorian is shaking against him, muffling his groans in Bull's shoulder, and it turns out that neither of them lasts very long. Dorian comes with a gasp, and that's the last straw, Bull comes right after him with his arm crushing Dorian to his chest.

It's a few minutes before either of them moves, both of them trying to get their breath back, and Bull is a little embarrassed by his lack of control. Not embarrassed enough to let go of Dorian just yet, but enough that when he's no longer gasping, he says, "Okay, that wasn't the way I meant that to go."

Dorian laughs, loud enough that Bull's sure they can hear him in the gym, and says, "How _did_ you mean that to go?"

"Maybe a little more romance and a little less horny teenager," Bull says.

"You can make it up to me later." Despite the words, he sounds pleased, his arm curling a little tighter around Bull's neck.

After a moment, he laughs again, more quietly. "Actually, you can make it up to me now by finding a way to clean this up that doesn't involve a walk of shame for either of us."

"That, I can do," Bull says. He turns to nuzzle the side of Dorian's head, enjoying the way his hair smells pleasantly of clean sweat. "But in a minute."

"Whenever," Dorian says. He settles his forehead against Bull's shoulder, making a lie out of his casual tone.

Bull wishes he didn't have a timer ticking in his head, counting down the minutes until his next appointment, but he does give himself a little longer before he straightens up with a sigh. Cleanup requires him to sacrifice his t-shirt for the cause, though at least he's got a spare in his gym bag. One grey t-shirt looks a lot like another, and there's a good chance Krem won't even notice the change. Assuming Bull can keep him out of the office until it smells a little less like sex.

He's got two minutes to spare by the time they both look presentable, and he pauses by his desk, one hand rustling the paper take-out bag to get Dorian's attention.

"Thanks," he says again, when Dorian looks at him. "I mean it. I've got a lot of appointments this afternoon, so I don't want to eat too much." Dorian's face starts to close off, and Bull hurries on before it's too late. "But I'll be done at eight, and then we could take all this back to my place. Eat it while we watch a movie or something."

"Or something?" Dorian asks, his smirk back. "I'm still not letting you pour curry on me."

"A guy can dream," Bull says. "And while I'm dreaming, you can watch a movie."

"Or something," Dorian agrees.

###

It's almost nine before they're settled on Bull's sofa with the food spread out on the coffee table. Dorian has changed into a pair of track pants he'd left here at some point in the past, topped off with one of Bull's t-shirts. It hangs almost to his knees, the sleeves brushing his elbows, but Bull doesn't comment. Right now he wants every little sign that Dorian is staying, and watching him stroke a hand over the fabric covering his upper arm unwinds something in Bull's gut that's been twisted tight for days, something that only started to loosen this afternoon.

As Bull is reaching for the remote to see what might be on TV, Dorian clears his throat quietly. The intent way he's studying the food puts Bull instantly on alert, and it doesn't help when Dorian says to the coffee table, "I have a confession to make." He prods the som tam like he's not sure what it is, then adds, "Two, actually."

And now Bull's heart is twisting up again. "Okay," he says cautiously.

There's a pause, then Dorian says, all in a rush, "I kissed Max."

Bull's stomach gives up on turning over and just clenches, hard. A little of it is jealousy, but most of it is fear, and for Dorian rather than himself. Max's emotional IQ is about what Bull saw in the average eighteen-year-old fresh out of AIT, and it's easy to imagine him going along on the assumption that if Dorian started it, it must be fine.

"Okay," Bull says again. He keeps his tone even and his body relaxed as he reaches for the nearest container. He has no idea what's in it, but he needs to do something with his hands. "Can I ask why?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time?" Dorian tries. Then he snorts. "Actually, it seemed like a terrible idea at the time, which was why I did it."

Bull can understand that just fine, and he relaxes very slightly. "What did Max think?"

"Well, he tried to give himself a concussion on the front door. I have to admit, it's the first time I've ever had someone literally run away to avoid kissing me."

Startled, Bull laughs aloud and offers Max a silent apology. "So he thought it was a bad idea, too?"

"I'd say so, yes." Dorian finally stops poking at the food and scoops some onto his plate. "He looked quite horrified."

Bull follows his lead, leaning over to take the som tam just to have an excuse to be close to Dorian for a second. "So you tried to kiss him, he tried to run away. Then what?"

"We talked," Dorian says, eyes still on his plate. "A lot."

"Good talking or bad talking?" If this whole thing has blown up Dorian's relationship with Max...

But Dorian smiles faintly. "Good talking, I think." The smile fades, and he _still_ hasn't looked up at Bull. "About some things we'd never talked about before."

Is he allowed to ask? Bull isn't sure, so he just makes an "I'm listening" noise.

"Rilienus," Dorian says, as if Bull couldn't have guessed that. "We never really talked about him. Max and I. After the..." Dorian swallows hard, though he hasn't taken a bite of anything. "After."

"And you've talked about it now?"

"Some," Dorian says. "More than we had."

"What did Max say?" Bull asks quietly.

Dorian fidgets with his plate, turning it in a full circle in his hands before picking up his fork to take the tiniest possible bite of som tam. "Do you remember that restaurant we went to?" he asks. "On our date."

The non sequitur only makes Bull more nervous. "The one with the great ravioli? Sure."

The corner of Dorian's mouth twitches in a faint smile. "Yes, that one."

Another silence, and Bull can feel his pulse in his fingertips. "It was good," he tries.

"It was," Dorian agrees. He takes another bite of som tam, chewing like he's taking seriously that dumb advice to chew thirty-two times or whatever. Only after he's chewed it into submission and swallowed does he say, "That wasn't the first time I've been there."

"Okay," Bull says warily.

"Rilienus and I went on a date there, once," Dorian says, voice that perfect calm he uses with his mother when he's not pissed at her. Bull's stomach drops from the tone by itself, even before he processes the words and it drops even farther.

"Okay," he says again, waiting for the rest of the story.

Dorian takes another small bite of food and Bull has to wait through more excessively thorough chewing before Dorian says, "I planned it. The date with Rilienus." He prods his food but, thank god, doesn't take another bite. Bull isn't sure what he might do if he has to wait any longer.

"It didn't go very well," Dorian says to his plate. "The parking was bad, the food was bad, the service was bad." Bull opens his mouth to protest, but Dorian talks over him. "Only, going there with you, I realized maybe they weren't bad, that Rilienus..."

This time, Dorian stops, mouth working, and Bull really wants to be able to wrap his hands around Rilienus's throat. He can't remember the last time he saw Dorian actually speechless, and it makes his stomach burn that there's nothing he can do about it.

When it becomes clear Dorian really is completely stuck, Bull suggests, "He was gaslighting you? Fucking with your head?"

Dorian jerks his chin down in a nod, and Bull can't stand it anymore. He doesn't know if it's the right move, but he can't sit here and pretend to eat when Dorian looks like that.

Slowly, giving Dorian plenty of time to pull away, Bull reaches out, waiting for any sign that Dorian doesn't want to be touched. There's nothing, no sign either way, but when Bull strokes gentle fingers across his cheek, Dorian turns into it.

"I spent hours planning," Dorian says into Bull's palm. "I wanted everything to be perfect, and I spent hours on it, and it took him less than five minutes to make me feel like complete and utter _shit_."

"Fuck," Bull mutters. He didn't mean to say it aloud, it just slipped out, but he doesn't try to take it back. Instead, he sets his plate down on the coffee table, pulls Dorian's plate from his hands to put it beside his own, then pulls gently on Dorian's arm until the two of them are stretched out on the couch together, chest to chest with Dorian' face tucked under Bull's chin.

"I feel so stupid," Dorian whispers.

"Don't," Bull says, protesting the words, almost protesting Dorian saying them at all. He doesn't want to hear this, doesn't want to know more than he already does, doesn't want to think about Dorian planning a date only to have all his excitement crushed by an asshole Bull already wants to kill.

He can't say that, though, so he sticks with, "You're not stupid."

"That's what Max said." Dorian sounds skeptical, but he also sounds a little more like himself, less like someone who's been beaten down.

"Well, then it's got to be true," Bull says, daring to joke. "I mean, when was the last time Max and I agreed about anything?"

 Dorian shifts, his weight settling as some of the tension leaves him, and Bull is happy to wrap both arms tight around him. It feels good to be close, to have Dorian's hand sliding under his shoulder to pull them closer together as he turns his face into Bull's neck. Bull is more than willing to ignore the mustache tickling his skin when it comes with a kiss attached.

Still one thing left, though, before he can relax, too. "So what's the other confession?"

Some of the tension comes back, but Dorian doesn't move away. "You asked Max about...Rilienus, rather than ask me."

"I know, and I'm sor-"

Dorian shakes his head, knocking it gently against Bull's chin. "Let me finish." His hand on Bull's back presses closer, as if he's afraid Bull is about to pull away. "According to Max, I've done something similar to you."

Bull frowns, trying to think of anything in his life that's as loaded as Dorian's history with Rilienus, and comes up blank. Even if Krem and Dorian has been talking about him behind his back, which is so unlikely it's laughable, there's nothing Krem could possibly tell Dorian that Bull would care about. "Oh?"

"Your medals," Dorian says, and Bull's skin prickles uncomfortably. "When you declined to discuss them, I...did a bit of research on my own, rather than leave it alone the way you wanted."

The formal language is back, and Bull realizes for the first time that it was missing last night. Strange to discover that even Dorian has a point where he's too upset to remember his five-dollar words, and it makes Bull feel again the way he did when he realized where Dorian has been sleeping.

But mixed in with the guilt is anger of his own. That's the one thing he didn't want Dorian prying into, and he can appreciate the irony without being any less annoyed.

There are a lot of things Bull could say, but he sticks with, "I wish you hadn't."

"I know," Dorian says. "I'm sorry. I was curious, and I should have left it alone."

"Why didn't you?" Bull asks, his voice more clipped than he meant it to be.

Dorian tries to sit up, and Bull tightens his arms. "Hey," he says, forcing his tone to soften. "Sorry. That came out wrong."

Dorian stops trying to pull away, but he doesn't relax, just holds himself rigid with his forehead against Bull's shoulder. "Why did you ask Max about Rilienus, instead of talking to me?" he asks pointedly.

It takes Bull a second to understand why Dorian is asking when Bull's already told him the answer. Then he makes the connection and smiles crookedly, even though Dorian can't see it. "Because I didn't want to pick at your scabs. And because the conversation got away from me."

"Exactly," Dorian says. He hasn't relaxed yet, his shoulders tense under Bull's arm. "I thought it would be better to find the answers myself, rather than ask questions I knew would upset you. And once I'd started, I forgot to stop."

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Bull rubs a hand down Dorian's back and makes himself admit, out loud, what he's thinking. "I wish you hadn't, but it's still not the same as me talking to Max about you."

That gets a surprised laugh from Dorian. "Max seems to think it is."

What Bull wants to say is, "Max needs to grow the fuck up," but now doesn't seem like the time. "Well, he's allowed to have his opinion."

Dorian pushes on his chest, but he's not trying to get away, only leaning back enough to see Bull's face. "Even if it's wrong?" he teases.

"Even if it's wrong," Bull agrees.

"I'll tell Max you said so."

"I'm sure that's real important to him."

Dorian laughs again, his lower body relaxing against Bull's as he props his forearms on Bull's chest. "He'll be ecstatic."

"Suuuure," Bull drawls. "Sure he will."

Still smiling, Dorian leans forward to kiss him lightly. "All right, maybe ecstatic is overstating things a bit."

"Just a bit," Bull says. He tweaks one side of Dorian's mustache and grins at the mock-glare Dorian gives him in return. "We should eat before the food gets cold."

"Probably." Instead of moving away, though, Dorian lays his head down on Bull's chest, right over his heart, and his arms go back around Bull's waist. "In a minute?"

Bull has to clear his throat carefully. "In a minute is good."

It's more like three or four, their breathing in perfect sync, before Dorian pulls away reluctantly and returns to his end of the sofa. "Dinner," he says, like he's reminding himself.

"Dinner," Bull says, handing him back his plate. "And what movie are we watching, anyway?"

As soon as the words are out, Bull has a better idea. Well, what he hopes is a better idea. It makes him nervous, but he's pretty sure that's his own reluctance talking and nothing to do with Dorian's probable reaction.

Dorian must read something in his face, because he closes his mouth on whatever answer he was about to give and blinks. "What?"

"Hang on," Bull says, levering himself off the couch and heading for the far bookcase.

His hands twitch as they close around the display case with his medals, but he ignores that and carries the case back to the sofa. Dorian's eyes go wide when he sees it, then he blinks and his masks lock in place.

Bull sits beside him and tangles their feet together. It hurts to see Dorian closed off like that, but Bull can only hope he'll loosen up once he understands. "We could have story time instead," Bull says, mocking himself lightly because it's easier than admitting that his heart is beating too fast.

"Story time?" Dorian asks warily. His plate is forgotten in his hand, and he's gone completely still.

"You wanted to know about them," Bull says. "I can tell you, though it's not really as interesting as people think."

Dorian stares at the case for a long time without blinking, and when he finally looks up at Bull, his expression has softened. "I do want to know," he says. "But only if you want to tell me."

Bull takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I don't," he admits. "But I do. Which doesn't make any damn sense, I know."

"It makes sense," Dorian says quietly. He touches the back of Bull's hand where it grips the side of the case, his eyes following the movement rather than meeting Bull's. "Either way, I don't want you to do this because you feel it's a requirement."

"I don't want to talk about any of it," Bull says. "But I want you to know it. And I know that means I have to tell you."

Dorian takes his own slow, deep breath as his fingers touch the peak of the display case. Without looking at Bull, he offers, "Then perhaps we limit ourselves to one story for tonight."

 "Works for me," Bull says, as if his stomach isn't a little queasy and his mind completely blank. He stares down at the case, trying to think of anything he can say about any of the medals that doesn't make him want to cringe.

A plate appears in his peripheral vision. "You should eat something," Dorian says.

"Yeah." Not that he wants to, but Dorian is right. The only problem is that he can't seem to make his hands work to set the case down, even though he didn't want to pick it up in the first place.

"Put it down," Dorian says with quiet authority, and Bull's hands move before his brain has time to catch up.

While he's clearing space on the coffee table, Dorian takes the plate and dumps what must be half the carton of som tam onto it. From there, he works his way through the food, piling the plate high with all the stuff Bull likes best.

Watching him, Bull swallows a protest, just waits in silence for Dorian to finish and hand him the plate.

"Thanks," he says. Before Dorian can lean away, Bull kisses him, and he can feel Dorian smile.

"You're welcome." His mouth is still against Bull's, and Bull thinks seriously about postponing dinner in favor of seeing how long he can make a blowjob last.

He doesn't make up his mind fast enough: Dorian is already sitting back and reaching for his own plate. At least this time he actually _eats_ , rather than looking at the food like it might poison him.

"I don't have a preference on the movie," Dorian says after a while, almost casually.

Bull knows he's being given an out if he wants to take it, a chance to go back to the original plan for this evening and pretend he never offered anything else. His gaze goes to the display case involuntarily, and his heart rate picks up a little. He still hasn't thought of anything he can say about the medals, so he comes at it sideways. "It's mostly boring, I hate to tell you. Being in the army. A lot of PT and standing around."

"Hurry up and wait?" Dorian asks dryly.

"Yeah." Bull shrugs. "Months of drill for three minutes of sheer fucking terror, and then back to drill."

"What fun."

"Pretty much. Drives some people crazy, honestly, but most people just find ways to deal with it. Some ways are good, some ways are bad." He smiles at his plate and takes another bite. "And some are just fucking stupid."

Dorian makes an encouraging noise as he settles back on the couch, and Bull smiles wider, shaking his head. "I had a couple PFCs try to keep a fucking krait as a pet. That was something else."

"A krait?" Dorian asks, eyebrows almost at his hairline. "As in a cobra?"

"Oh yeah," Bull says. "One of the idiots had a ball python or something back home, and they thought it would be cool. Which was bad enough, but then they didn't keep an eye on it, so it got out in the middle of the barracks during an inspection." He laughs a little, remembering. "I don't think I've ever seen a platoon sergeant that pissed off."

"I'm sure," Dorian says. He looks thoughtful, his gaze distant, and then he laughs, his eyes re-focusing on Bull. "I shouldn't laugh, should I? I'm just imagining what that must have looked like."

"We laughed our asses off," Bull says. "Well, except the platoon sergeant and the two idiots responsible. Nobody got bit, and the krait got the hell out of there while it could." He shakes his head. "Bunch of teenagers with testosterone poisoning and too much time on their hands. God, they did some dumbass shit."

Dorian makes another encouraging noise, his eyes bright and interested, and for a second, Bull freezes. He's being charmed again, and he wants to push back, to turn the conversation around to Dorian, except this is what Dorian wants. And Bull wants to make him happy.

So he takes a breath and digs through his memory for another story that doesn't end with somebody losing body parts and tries to pretend the whole thing isn't making him twitchy.

With Dorian listening attentively, laughing and asking questions to draw him out, it's not as hard as he thought it would be. One story becomes two, and then three, and by the time they're both done eating, Bull has forgotten he's supposed to hate this. He's relaxed, and Dorian is smiling at him, and it's the easiest thing in the world to lean in and kiss him.

"Why, hello," Dorian murmurs, still smiling.

"Hey there," Bull says. "Come here often?"

Dorian laughs, low and warm. "Occasionally. Are my chances good for tonight?"

"Oh, probably," Bull says, pretending to give it serious thought.

Right up until Dorian slides into his lap, and then Bull is happy to cup his ass with both hands and pull him in close. Not kissing, not quite, just lips brushing and catching on stubble, Dorian's hands warm through his t-shirt, Dorian's eyes half shut with pleasure.

He gives that same perfect laugh when Bull takes a better grip on his ass and sprawls out on the sofa, Dorian on top of him.

"What?" Dorian asks, laughing against his cheek. "Don't you want to finish dinner? Perhaps have some dessert?"

"Oh, I'm having dessert," Bull says, squeezing Dorian's ass in case it wasn't already clear what he meant.

Dorian leans back enough to give him a disapproving frown. "Did you really just go there?"

"Yup," Bull says. "Besides, you offered."

"I was thinking of ice cream," Dorian says, fighting not to smile.

"So you changed your mind about me pouring stuff on you?" Bull asks hopefully.

"Hardly," Dorian says. The smile is starting to win despite his best efforts, and the weight of him on Bull's chest feels so right. "I was going to eat it from a bowl like a civilized person."

"Where's the fun in that?" Bull asks. "At least go for popsicles if you're not going to let me lick anything off you."

"Popsicles," Dorian says thoughtfully. He's leaning in gradually, his gaze fixed on Bull's mouth. "I admit I was hoping to suck _something_ , but a popsicle wasn't quite what I had in mind."

"Really?" Bull says. "I'm not sure I get it, I think I'm going to need some details."

Dorian kisses him lightly and says, enunciating each word, "I want to suck your cock." Another kiss that's just a brush of lips. "I want to suck your cock until you can't think about anything except my mouth, and all you want to do is come."

"Like I'm going to be thinking about anything else now," Bull says, heat burning all the way down to his fingertips.

"Good," Dorian breathes against his mouth.

He's still teasing, still keeping the kisses light, but Bull's had enough. He strokes one hand up Dorian's spine to cradle the back of his head, pulling him in for a longer kiss. Dorian's mouth is open before their lips meet, and he presses into the kiss with a small, needy sound, shifting so he can press his own hands to Bull's cheeks. His tongue tastes Bull's mouth in small flicks, and one of his legs slides between Bull's thighs with deliberate intent.

Dorian's hips roll in an easy rhythm, but what's really making Bull hard is the way he gives a pleased hum every time his tongue traces the line of Bull's lips. That pleased hum is almost a purr when Bull squeezes his ass again, pulling him even closer.

Before things can go any farther, Bull tilts his head to murmur in Dorian's ear, "Are we really going to do this here? I promised you more romance and less horny teenager, and I have a very nice bed just down the hall."

"But I'd have to let go of you first," Dorian says, nuzzling the hollow behind his jaw.

"Not really," Bull says. "Not like I haven't carried you before."

To Bull's confusion, Dorian tenses a little, though it's nothing like the way he was practically vibrating earlier. He almost manages to sound like he's joking when he says, "Wrecking your back wasn't exactly on my agenda for tonight."

"Wasn't on mine, either," Bull says cheerfully and flips them over before Dorian can respond. It puts Dorian on his back with Bull above him, and Bull congratulates himself silently on not dumping either of them on the floor.

"What-" Dorian begins, but the rest of his sentence disappears in a groan as Bull grabs a fistful of his hair to pull his head to the side.

It's Bull's turn to press his thigh between Dorian's as his teeth scrape over the curve of Dorian's ear. "Fine by me if you want to do this here," Bull murmurs. "I'm good with wherever you are."

Dorian tries to answer, but Bull doesn't let him, clenching the fist in his hair tighter just to feel him arch up. Without letting go of his hair, Bull slides his other hand under the t-shirt, seeking Dorian's skin.

Or at least, that's the goal. The problem is Dorian's t-shirt. Well, Bull's t-shirt, that Dorian is wearing and drowning in. A t-shirt so long that Bull's knee is currently pinning it to the couch cushions.

About the time Bull realizes he's not going to be able to make this work, Dorian starts to laugh. "Having problems?" he asks, opening his eyes.

"Maybe," Bull says, pretending annoyance. It makes Dorian laugh again, and Bull's all in favor of that. "Or maybe I'm just figuring out my strategy."

"Strategy," Dorian says with deep skepticism. "Really."

"Yup," Bull says.

"And how well is that working?"

"Not very," Bull admits, leaning down to kiss Dorian's smiling mouth. "How about we both stand up and pretend I didn't just completely fail at smooth?"

"Will you make it worth my while?" Dorian asks archly.

Bull tightens his hand again and kisses Dorian's ear softly. "Definitely."

"Well, in that case," Dorian says, his voice a little unsteady, "I think perhaps I can manage to feign ignorance."

There's some awkward scrambling and a couple laughs, but they get off the couch without hurting each other or the furniture. Bull has his mouth open to repeat his suggestion about the bedroom, until Dorian takes a half step back to give himself room and reaches for the hem of his t-shirt. He's smiling faintly as he pulls the shirt off over his head, as if he knows exactly how good he looks.

As big as the shirt is on him, it shouldn't be possible for the move to be smooth, let alone sexy, but he makes it both. While Bull is still trying to unstick his brain from that, Dorian strips out of track pants and underwear together, kicking them to the side and spreading his hands as if to say, "Here I am."

Bull goes down on his knees, putting his hands on Dorian's hips to draw him in close enough to tongue the rings in his nipples. Not biting yet, just running his tongue over them while Dorian's breathing changes and his hands come to rest on the back of Bull's neck, an obvious request that Bull willfully ignores.

As he licks and sucks, letting his teeth graze over the skin without doing more than tease, Dorian's hands become insistent. Smiling to himself, Bull continues to ignore what's rapidly becoming more of a demand than a hint. Instead, he lets his already-light touch become even lighter, breathing against Dorian's skin now, not even his lips touching.

"Bull." Dorian is half laughing even as his voice shakes. "Please."

"Please what?" Bull asks innocently, rolling his eye up to look at Dorian.

"You know what." He looks away, uncomfortable.

Bull feels a weird, unpleasant twist in his gut to realize they're back to this, back to Dorian embarrassed by what he wants, reluctant to say it out loud in case he gets mocked. Another unintended consequence of that breach of trust, as if Bull needed yet another reason to want to strangle his past self.

Well, they got past it once, they can get past it again.

"Please what?" Bull says again, leaning in to lick one of Dorian's nipples. "Please that?" Before Dorian can answer, Bull sucks gently on the other one, pulling it into his mouth to flick the ring with his tongue.

Dorian twitches, and Bull pulls back enough to ask, "Or please that?"

He still doesn't give Dorian a chance to answer, just switches back to the other nipple and bites down a little harder, rolling it between his teeth for a few seconds. "Or maybe please that?"

"Yes," Dorian breathes, so Bull rewards him by doing it again, hard this time. Dorian's hands on the back of his neck squeeze tighter the harder he bites, and Dorian has stopped breathing by the time Bull lets go.

His cock is hard, and he thrusts forward into Bull's fist when Bull wraps a hand around it. "Fuck, yes," Bull says, watching him. "Fuck, you're gorgeous like this."

Dorian looks down like he's checking to see if Bull is joking, but Bull is completely serious. Watching Dorian react is one of his favorite things, and he tries to make sure that's clear on his face.

It must work, because Dorian smiles a little and cups Bull's cheek in one hand. "Why are you talking?" he teases, and Bull grins at him.

"Got distracted," Bull says. He strokes his hand up Dorian's cock, enjoying the feel of soft skin sliding over hardness. "I'll work on that."

Dorian's eyes half close, his fingers flexing. "You do that."

Still smiling, Bull leans forward to catch one of the rings in his teeth, twisting harder this time as he strokes Dorian's cock in slow, easy movements. He's not interested in rushing this, but he wants Dorian past that point where his brain shuts off, where he stops worrying about everything and just feels.

Both of Dorian's hands are cupping the back of Bull's head now. Not pushing, not demanding, just stroking as lightly as Bull is stroking his cock, like he can't not touch. Like he needs the contact just as much as he wants what Bull is doing to him.

His hands make it easy for Bull to gauge his reaction even when he's quiet, and he doesn't stay quiet for long. At first it's just his muscles that shift, thighs tensing and chest arching against Bull's mouth, his own lips pressed hard together to smother any noise. Then his breathing changes, getting quicker and harsher, and his fingers press a little harder against Bull's head, flexing in time to each gasp.

Bull bites him hard again, and Dorian moans, the sound going straight to Bull's cock. Bull does it again, alternating between gentle licks and rough bites until Dorian is exhaling on a groan every time and his hands are shaking against Bull's head.

"Please that?" Bull asks, leaning back again.

Dorian has to take a deep breath, but his aim is right on as he swats Bull in the back of the head. "It's not nice to tease."

"Since when?" Bull demands.

"All right," Dorian says, "but perhaps you could tease from up here?" His hand strokes the back of Bull's head again, rasping on the stubble, and his voice is rough when he adds, "I want to touch you."

It's hot, but Bull feels it in his chest more than anywhere, exactly the opposite of that unpleasant twist earlier. "I like that plan," he says, just to see Dorian smile.

Getting back to his feet is a reminder why he doesn't kneel very often, but he doesn't care, because Dorian is right there as soon as he's standing, hands reaching for the hem of his shirt to help him pull it off. Bull hasn't even tossed the shirt aside before Dorian's mouth is exploring his chest and throat, pushing his shorts down to get a hand on his dick.

Bull combs both hands through Dorian's hair, pulling his head back to kiss him hard, making appreciative noises as Dorian hooks an arm around his neck to get even closer. Dorian isn't quiet anymore, and he moans into the kiss, his breath quick against Bull's face.

When Bull straightens, Dorian tries to hold on, his mouth opening on a protest, only to yelp in surprise when Bull tumbles them both back onto the couch, Dorian on the bottom.

"That better?" Bull asks.

For an answer, Dorian kisses him, biting his lower lip before licking into his mouth. His hips rock, dick rubbing against Bull's, and his hands move restlessly over Bull's chest, touching everywhere he can.

Bull reaches down and takes both their cocks in one hand, enjoying the sound Dorian makes. His head tips back, baring his throat, and Bull kisses along his jaw to his ear. "Yeah," he murmurs, and Dorian's next thrust is harder. "Oh, yeah. Watching you like this? Fuck, I think I could come just from that, you're so fucking hot."

Dorian is shaking, his mouth wide, and Bull strokes faster. "I love how much you enjoy this," he whispers. "I love seeing it, I love hearing it, I love knowing you're desperate for it." He kisses Dorian's ear lightly. " _Are_ you desperate for it?"

"Yes!" Dorian gasps, burying his face in Bull's shoulder. "Fuck, yes!"

"Are you close?" Bull asks, working his free hand around to make a fist in Dorian's hair just for the sound it drags from deep in Dorian's chest. "I know I am, but I want to feel you come. I want to feel the way you move, hear all those beautiful noises you make." He twists the hand in Dorian's hair, and Dorian pulls against it, whimpering at the sensation. "Just like that."

"Yes," Dorian begs. "Just like that, please, oh fuck, your hand...you...I want..."

Dorian is clinging to him now, arms around his neck, and Bull wants to forget everything, jerk himself off while Dorian is panting in his ear. His balls are tight, and Dorian has forgotten to be ashamed: his voice is breaking apart but he's mumbling pleas anyway, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Bull's neck in between words.

"I want...let me...I want to suck you," he whispers, and Bull shudders, fighting for control. "I want to suck you, I want your cock, I want..." He breaks off, feet digging for purchase on the couch cushions as he fucks Bull's fist, words lost in a groan.

"You think I'll say no?" Bull asks. "You've got the most amazing fucking mouth, and god, you can put it on me whenever you want."

"I want..." He swallows, twisting his head against Bull's grip, and then the words come out in a rush. "I want you to fuck my mouth, I want your hands in my hair, forcing me to take it, all of it, every inch, all the way down until I can't even _breathe_."

Bull gets a flash of that image, his hands in Dorian's hair and his cock buried in Dorian's throat, and it wrecks his control, drives him over the edge so suddenly he can't hold back. He comes all over his hand, all over Dorian's cock and stomach, and one of Dorian's legs is twisted around his as Dorian drives up into his fist, groaning, dick pulsing against his. That second rush of wet heat against his skin makes Bull hiss out a quick breath, his whole body jolted by aftershocks.

He's shaking, but he manages to brace his shoulders so he can get his breath back without crushing Dorian. Dorian, who's nudging at his chin, seeking Bull's mouth as if they're not both gasping. The kisses are uncoordinated, landing on his chin or his cheeks as often as on his lips, but Bull isn't doing much better.

He winds up sacrificing another t-shirt in the name of cleanup, just to avoid moving farther away from Dorian. There's a blanket on the back of the couch, and once they're rolled over, Dorian on top, Bull's happy to fall asleep right here.

"You promised me a movie," Dorian says sleepily, without raising his head.

Bull waves a hand in the vague direction of the TV. "Knock yourself out." He feels Dorian's smile. "I can probably reach the remote, but you'd have to move."

Dorian makes a disinterested noise and settles himself a little more comfortably. He runs an idle finger through the hair on Bull's chest, rubbing his face back and forth in small arcs. When Bull runs a hand through his hair, he makes the same purring hum from earlier.

"Hey," Bull says, reminded. The reminder by itself is enough to stir a little interest from his dick, but he ignores that. "Got a question for you."

"Hmmm?"

"Me fucking your throat," he says. Dorian's eyes snap open, and he tenses, hand going from stroking to braced, ready to push away. Bull ignores it, rubbing at Dorian's scalp to try to soothe him. "Is that something you really want? Or just one of those things that's fun to think about but not fun to do?"

Dorian doesn't relax, and he doesn't answer.

"Just curious," Bull says, keeping his tone carefully matter-of-fact. "It's come up a couple times now, made me wonder."

There's a long pause, then Dorian says without relaxing, "I've thought about it."

"Okay," Bull says, hoping it's there in his tone, that he doesn't think it's wrong or weird.

Maybe it works, because Dorian goes back to petting his chest as he asks hesitantly, "Have you ever done that?"

"Nah," Bull says. "Never really stayed with anybody long enough."

Dorian blinks, his eyelashes tickling Bull's chest. "Long enough for them to trust you?"

"Long enough to have any kind of serious conversation about not using condoms."

"Oh." Dorian's hand stops moving again, but he's not tense. "If...we reached that point, would you be interested?"

Bull knows how hard it was for Dorian to ask that question, and he wants to say a hundred things, all of them wrong. Making Dorian more self-conscious about this conversation is the worst thing he could do, short of laughing or mocking him. "I'd definitely be interested," he says instead. "Just thinking about it is pretty hot."

"All right," Dorian says. He's still a little tense, and Bull isn't surprised when he slides out from under the blanket.

He only goes as far as the TV, shuffling through movies like he's looking for something. Bull suspects what he's really looking for is a little time to collect himself, so he just waits, and eventually, his patience is rewarded. Dorian puts on a movie and comes back, crawling under the blanket to stretch out on Bull's chest again.

Instead of lying down, though, he props himself up with one forearm on Bull's chest. The other hand touches Bull's cheek, tracing the line of stubble up to the eyepatch. He hesitates there, glancing over to meet Bull's eye, then pushes the eyepatch aside long enough to lean down and kiss the scar. It's the kind of thing that normally makes Bull tense if he doesn't watch himself, but tonight, it's surprisingly easy to just enjoy being so close to Dorian.

"I'm glad you're here," Dorian whispers.

Bull turns to catch his mouth for a kiss. "I'm glad I'm here, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AIT: Advanced Individual Training (what comes after basic training)  
> PFC: Private First Class (the most junior enlisted rank in the army)
> 
> I always forget to add these notes, so feel free to remind me. :)


	31. Lay Your Worries Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I long to see the morning light  
> Coloring your face so dreamily.  
> So don't you go and say goodbye,  
> You can lay your worries down and stay with me.  
> And don't you ever leave.
> 
> Lay down, Sally, and rest you in my arms.  
> Don't you think you want someone to talk to?
> 
> Eric Clapton, Marcy Levy, & George Terry, "Lay Down Sally"
> 
> ***********************************************************************************
> 
> You are amazing, wonderful, patient people, and I adore all of you, but extra love to everyone who's done sprints with me over on Discord the last couple weeks, and to meelah, who didn't know what she was signing up for but hasn't quit yet. <3

Dorian wakes to Bull's weight pinning him to the bed, and all he wants is to stay like this for at least the next week, warm and half asleep with the rest of the world at a comfortable remove. He's not awake enough to overthink anything right now, and he can surround himself with the heat of Bull's skin and-

And the truly obnoxious tone of Bull's alarm, which pierces the quiet of the bedroom with a shrill beep Dorian has never hated as much as he does right now.

Bull mutters something into the back of Dorian's head, then his weight is gone as he rolls over to slap at his phone. After a second's hesitation, Dorian rolls with him, curling up along his back with an arm around his waist. Not clinging, not quite, but also not ready to let him go just yet. Yesterday, the anxiety was so sharp it was almost painful to have Bull out of his sight; this morning, it's down to a faint uneasiness, but it's still very much there.

"Hey," Bull murmurs, sounding surprised. His hand covers Dorian's where it's splayed across his chest, fingers curling under the palm like he's going to pull it away to get out of bed. He doesn't, though: he just stays like that, holding Dorian's hand in his, and when he does finally lift it gently up, it's only so he can roll back over and put his arm around Dorian's shoulders.

"Hey," he says again, softly. "Go back to sleep, okay? You're allowed to sleep in on a Sunday, you know."

"I'm skeptical," Dorian mutters without opening his eyes.

"Well, be skeptical in bed." The smile is there in Bull's voice, and Dorian opens his eyes so he can see it. "Meet me at the gym in a couple hours, we can get lunch."

"Or something," Dorian adds, just to watch Bull's smile widen.

"Or something." Bull presses a kiss to his forehead, breath warm. "I'll text you when I get there, let you know when I've got a break."

This time when he tries to get up, Dorian lets him, but after less than a minute of lying in bed alone, he staggers into the bathroom to follow Bull into the shower. The half-truth he has ready, that he was planning on getting up early anyway, turns out to be unnecessary. Bull just smiles and hands him the soap.

By the time they're out of the shower, the anxiety is barely more than a murmur in the back of his head. Dorian pretends to ignore it even as he knows the reason he's reluctant to put more than half a room between them. If Bull notices anything out of the ordinary, he's smart enough to say nothing.

In the kitchen, Bull toasts a few slices of bread while Dorian makes coffee, and somehow, they never make it as far as the kitchen table. Bull eats his toast leaning against the counter, feet spread wide enough that Dorian can stand between them and steal bites of his toast while Bull steals sips of his coffee. Dorian has never tried so hard to make one cup of coffee last so long.

Despite his best efforts, they're at the front door soon enough. Normally, Dorian would get in his own car, drive home or straight to the office depending on his mood and workload, but today, he hesitates.

Without looking at Bull, he adjusts the strap of his laptop bag. "I could ride with you," he says casually.

Bull stops with his hand halfway to the doorknob, and Dorian risks a glance at him from the corner of one eye, trying to decide what his startled expression means.

"If that's all right," he adds, unable to stop himself.

"It's fine," Bull says. "You think I'm going to complain about having nice scenery in my office all day?"

Dorian snorts and relaxes a little. "Scenery? I'm scenery now?"

"Nice scenery." Bull leans down for a kiss, his tongue warm against Dorian's lips for the briefest second. "Very nice scenery."

"Flattery," Dorian says dismissively, even as he grabs the back of Bull's neck to hold him still for another kiss.

"I hear it gets people places," Bull says with a huge--and hugely suggestive--grin.

"It's possible," Dorian allows. "You can always try it and see what happens."

Bull makes a thoughtful noise and uses the strap on Dorian's laptop bag to pull him in closer. By the smile Bull gives him, Dorian is expecting the flattery to be obscene, but what Bull says against his mouth is, "I like that you laugh at my jokes."

It's ridiculous, but Dorian is struck speechless, embarrassed that something so silly should mean so much to him. He doesn't even know what to say, so he just leans forward the last half inch to kiss Bull soundly, hoping they can both forget this conversation even as he saves the memory away for later.

"Don't you have places to be?" he asks, reclaiming the strap of his bag from Bull's fingers and straightening it with unnecessary thoroughness. "Work, perhaps?"

"Oh, probably," Bull says. "You coming with me?"

It will mean he's stuck at the gym the whole day, but right now, that doesn't feel like a bad thing at all.

###

Bull's office is quiet despite all the activity in the gym. The walls are just thick enough to mute the noise to a background hum: loud enough that Dorian doesn't feel like he's fourteen again, locked in a silent room, but quiet enough not to distract him from his work. Bull drifts in and out as his appointments allow, and whenever he passes by, his fingers brush Dorian's shoulder, or his hair, or his cheek.

Dorian doesn't quite know what to do with those small, casual touches, so he just smiles each time, turning to kiss Bull's palm or leaning into a touch. By lunchtime, he's tilting sideways every time the door opens, anticipating Bull's hand, wanting that contact more than he'll admit out loud. Every time he leans and Bull's hand is there, the anxiety recedes a little farther into memory.

Early in the afternoon, he wanders out of Bull's office to stretch his legs in a space slightly larger than the two square feet of unoccupied floor between the desk and the visitor's chair. Krem is at the counter, and he gives Dorian a stiff nod. Trying to be friendly, but still wary. Since Dorian knows exactly how he feels, it's hard to hold it against him. His own nod is more natural, but then, Krem didn't have Aquinea Thalrassian-Pavus as a teacher, either.

They stand at their respective ends of the counter for a couple minutes of awkward silence, Krem pretending to concentrate on his computer screen and Dorian developing a sudden intense interest in straightening the various flyers piled in front of him. One stack in particular seems to have every other one turned the opposite way, and he's halfway through fixing it when Krem says, "You should come out this Tuesday."

Dorian hesitates, a flyer poised over the stack. "For the game?" Of course for the game, but it seems a better question than, "Are you sure you want me there?" Because Krem might answer that one a little too honestly for the truce they're trying to declare.

"It's fun," Krem says, though his tone is only moderately convincing. He seems to realize that, and when he goes on, he sounds more enthusiastic. "We're not hard core or anything, it's just a bunch of us having a good time. I mean, winning doesn't suck, but it's not like any of us are going pro."

"A good thing for me," Dorian says to the flyers. Long ago gym classes aside, he's never been much for team sports. Running is his exercise of choice, even if he hasn't had much time for it lately. "I'm not sure I even remember how to throw a football."

"That's okay," Krem says. "Neither does Rocky, but he's never let that stop him."

Dorian glances over, trying to gauge whether he's being mocked, but Krem's smile is friendly enough, if still a bit forced. "It must make for an interesting game, then."

Krem shrugs and pokes a few keys on the keyboard. "We're there to have fun," he says. "It's not the Super Bowl, so who cares if we're doing it wrong?"

An ability to just let things go and not worry about whether they're perfect has never been one of Dorian's skills. While he's considering that, he pulls out his phone and flips through the calendar. "Tuesdays at six?"

"That's us."

Looking at the next several weeks, Dorian isn't sure if he's relieved or disappointed to find himself booked. "Not this week," he says, continuing to scroll. "Or next week. Maybe the week after." That will depend on whether the meeting he currently has scheduled from three to four on that day actually finishes on time. Given the participants, the chances are vanishingly small, but he supposes it could happen. "Or the week after that."

"Don't worry about it," Krem says, his tone stiff again. "If you can't make it, you can't make it."

Dorian keeps his eyes on his phone and his tone even. "While I won't go so far as to say that you'll know if I'm blowing you off," because the art of the subtle brush-off was one of his mother's first lessons, "in this particular case, I'm not actually trying to decline your invitation without saying so."

A tiny, guilty part of him knows that's almost a lie. To assuage that part, Dorian flips to his first free Tuesday afternoon and deliberately types in the information, blocking off a few hours before just in case someone decides to try scheduling a meeting that would keep him at the office too late.

"What's the address?" he asks. He actually remembers it--or close enough--from that disastrous first meeting, but asking for it allows him to make his point without being so unsubtle as to wave his phone in Krem's face.

When there's no answer, Dorian looks up to find Krem frowning at him. The expression is more confused than hostile, so Dorian just waits.

"Sorry," Krem says at last, looking back down at his fingers flexing on the keyboard. "This is kind of new territory for me. The Chief doesn't usually do relationships, not like this. I mean, he might hook up with the same person two or three times, but that's it. Nobody who was ever around enough to bother getting to know."

Dorian considers that for a while, typing what he remembers of the address into the appropriate field to keep himself from fidgeting as he turns Krem's words over in his head. It's not like the information is new to him, but the reminder leaves him blinking. Bull is usually so confident in everything he does, he makes it easy to forget he has less actual experience with relationships than Dorian.

It shines a subtly different light on everything that happened with Max, and Dorian exhales silently, trying to breathe out the last remnants of his anxiety. He even mostly succeeds, and his tone is light when he says, "And none of them were assholes like me?"

Krem sputters, clearly trying and failing to think of something that's both true and tactful.

"It goes with being a lawyer, you know," Dorian adds, letting the corners of his mouth curl up even as he keeps his eyes on his phone. He's not actually typing anything in now, just scrolling idly to give himself an excuse not to look up, but he can't quite force himself to stop. "We're required to be assholes."

"Are there classes?" Krem asks after a second. "In law school, I mean."

"Of course," Dorian says blandly. "Lecture and lab."

Krem snorts, sounding so much like Bull that Dorian looks up, expecting to find him standing there. He's across the gym, though, and it's just Krem looking back for a second before they both busy themselves with other things. The silence isn't exactly comfortable, but it's only half as strained as it was five minutes ago, and that's something. Before either of them can wreck it, Dorian retreats back to Bull's office and his laptop.

He does make sure to save the appointment to his calendar, though.

Just as he's sliding his phone back into his pocket, Bull sticks his head into the office, eyebrows raised in an expression that's half curious and half concerned. He doesn't need to say Krem's name for Dorian to understand the question.

For a second, Dorian can feel himself hovering between amused and annoyed, but he takes a deep breath in through his nose and makes a deliberate choice to embrace the former. "We didn't challenge each other to a duel at dawn," he says dryly.

"Good thing," Bull says, stepping all the way into the office and closing the door behind himself. "Because I hate to tell you, but he'd probably win."

"Your confidence in me is touching," Dorian says, unoffended. "Even if we were dueling, I'd have better sense than to choose pistols."

"Silly me," Bull says. The office is small enough that he only needs a half step to brace his hands on the arms of Dorian's chair and lean down for a kiss. Just before their mouths meet, he grins slyly and asks, "So what would you have picked? Drawn contracts at dawn?"

Dorian groans at the pun and shoves him back. "Just for that, I'm now ignoring you."

"That's a shame," Bull drawls.

He doesn't add anything else, and Dorian's curiosity can't take that. "Why?"

"I was hoping you might be taking requests for lunch."

It's not what Dorian was expecting, but he manages to shift gears before the silence turns awkward. "I might be persuaded. How nicely were you going to ask?"

"Depends," Bull says, still in that same drawl.

"On what?"

"On how nicely you want me to ask. 'Cause I can be not-nice, too, if that's what you want."

Dorian flushes--from lust, not embarrassment--but he keeps his tone cool. "Nicely," he says. "I think you should ask very nicely."

"Well, then," Bull murmurs. He leans in again, smiling, and brushes his lips over Dorian's. "I can be very nice."

"Oh, I know," Dorian says, amused. He's about to ask what, exactly, Bull wants for lunch, but the question gets lost as Bull kisses him again.

This kiss isn't brief. It's slow and soft and sweet, and it goes on until Dorian is in danger of melting right into the chair. Or possibly setting it on fire.

"Is that nice enough?" Bull asks against his mouth, eventually.

"Perhaps," Dorian says in the most doubtful tone he can manage. "You might want to do it again, just to be sure."

Bull hums thoughtfully and obliges. Dorian cups the back of his head with one hand but doesn't try to change the pace of the kiss, enjoying the heat without needing it to be more. At least, not-

In his pocket, his phone buzzes and startles both of them.

"Sorry," Dorian says as Bull straightens.

"It's fine," Bull says with a smirk. "Probably a good thing we've got a chaperone, or I might get carried away."

"And how nicely do I have to ask if I want you to get carried away?" Dorian asks, arching an eyebrow. "Or not-nicely."

Bull's smirk turns into an all-out grin. "How about you get lunch, and I'll get carried away tonight?"

"I'll have to consult with my attorneys," Dorian says with a completely straight face, "but I think we might be able to reach a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Dorian's phone buzzes again, and Bull shakes his head, still smiling. "Better get that before it explodes."

"It's probably nothing," Dorian says, but he pulls it out anyway.

There are two emails from the same client, and he opens the first, caught between annoyance and concern. Clients don't usually email on Sundays unless there's a problem, though this particular client occasionally has odd ideas of what constitutes a problem.

He reads the email, then reads it again, frowning at the screen. On the surface, the question is so basic he can answer it off the top of his head. Under the surface...well. It's not the kind of question people flag as urgent, not even this client.

Hoping for a hint as to what the real question might be, he looks at the second email, and his stomach turns over. All it says is, "Call me."

"What's up?" Bull asks.

Dorian blinks at him, trying to drag his thoughts back to the present and away from the list of every possible crisis that might be brewing. Or already brewed. There are clients he'd trust to contact him early enough to avoid a true disaster, but this isn't one of them.

"A client," Dorian says. "He wants me to call."

Bull's eyebrow goes up. "That can't be good."

"Probably not." He looks back at his phone and that seemingly-innocuous question. "Almost certainly not."

 Maybe it's nothing. Clients panic over ridiculous things all the time, and maybe the worst that happens is he spends thirty minutes doing the attorney's version of patting their hands and murmuring, "There, there, it'll be all right."

"I'll be back in a sec," Bull says. "You want to call him, and then we'll see?"

It feels wrong to kick Bull out of his own office, even if by invitation, but Dorian needs somewhere private.

"Thank you," he says, trying not to let his annoyance show. Bull isn't who he's annoyed with, after all.

His annoyance only grows when he does make the call, because it's every bit as much of a disaster as he'd expected. The kind of disaster that only comes from people trying to solve a problem they know nothing about and ignoring all the warning signs that they're in over their heads, right up until they're drowning. The kind of disaster that could have been avoided completely with one short phone call, if only that call had happened three weeks ago.

The kind of disaster that's going to require more than a Sunday afternoon to fix, and that's the worst of it. He's had to deal with things like this is the past, problems that required him to all but live at work, and while it's always exhausting, today feels like the worst possible timing for it. Everything with Bull is just getting back to normal, just reaching the point where it doesn't feel fragile. Will that still be true if he disappears for several days?

He can practically hear Rilienus's sneering voice: "You're a lawyer, Dorian, not a heart surgeon. Nobody's going to die if you leave at a reasonable hour."

Fear mixes unpleasantly with anger, leaving him queasy as he ends the call. Knowing he's being ridiculous doesn't help, but he tries to logic it out anyway. Bull works his own long hours; if anyone can understand, it will be him.

Dorian is still taking deep breaths to get hold of himself when someone knocks lightly on the office door.

"Come in," he snaps, then winces when Bull sticks his head cautiously inside. "Sorry."

"Forget it," Bull says, stepping into the office and closing the door. "So what's up?

"I have to go in." He squeezes his phone, the edges digging in to his palm. "It's going to take a couple days to unravel this."

Bull nods slowly, watching his face. "You need a ride?"

His car. Shit. He'd forgotten it was still at Bull's house. "No, it's fine, I can get a cab."

"I can drive you." Bull is starting to frown. "I don't mind."

 _I mind,_ Dorian thinks. And he minds a lot. Lavellan  & Cadash bought the right to interrupt his weekend when he accepted the offer to be made partner. Bull didn't make any such agreement, and the thought of him rearranging his day because of someone else's fuckup just makes Dorian want to bite something.

And yet...thirty more minutes with Bull isn't something he's prepared to scorn.

He takes a deep breath, reminds himself that directing his anger at Bull is counterproductive at best, and asks, "Do you have any appointments?"

"I'm free for an hour or so," Bull says. "Plenty long enough to drive you home and come back. With time left over for lunch, if you don't mind getting food someplace you've got to order through a speaker."

Dorian smiles reluctantly. "I can live with that."

On their way out the door, Bull stops to say something to Krem, and while they're talking, Dorian steals a look at the appointment book. It shows an hour and fifteen minutes before Bull's next appointment, and Dorian relaxes fractionally. It's not that he doesn't trust Bull, but he's not entirely convinced Bull wouldn't bend the truth if he thought it would help Dorian. That was at least part of the problem with Max, after all.

They pass the drive back to Bull's house in companionable silence, Bull's hand on Dorian's knee and Dorian's hand over top. It's reassuring, and Dorian saves it up for what he knows from experience will be a grueling few days. He doesn't let go when Bull comes to a stop beside his car, holding on to that contact for just a few seconds longer.

"Hey." Bull frees his hand gently and touches Dorian's cheek. "I'll be here when you get back."

"That will be tomorrow," Dorian warns him, even as he turns his face into Bull's palm. "Or maybe later. Hell, it could be _next_ Sunday."

"I'll still be here." Bull's lips on his are warm and dry, the kiss brief. "Just don't forget to eat, okay?"

"I'll do my best."

"Good." He smiles against Dorian's mouth, and Dorian smiles back. "I'd hate to have to come over there and remind you in person."

"That would be terrible," Dorian agrees. "Truly terrible."

###

By the time Dorian gets to the office, Ellana is already there, and she pounces on him the second he walks through the door. Everything else is set aside as he buries himself in comment letters and case law, digging for the pieces he needs without paying any attention to how much time is passing.

Sunday night, he gets four hours of sleep. Monday and Tuesday, he doesn't even get that much, and Wednesday, he doesn't get any at all. Thursday morning, he goes home just long enough to shower, shave, and change clothes so that he can be back in the office for a conference call at eight. At least it's a conference call. He can look like hell as long as he doesn't sound like it.

He lives on coffee for the most part, except when Minaeve shoves a sandwich under his nose, and even then, he usually forgets to eat half of it. As frustrating as the whole situation is, there's a part of him that revels in it, that need to think fast in a hundred different directions. The research has always been what he loves best about his job, and the imaginary clock ticking in the background is a challenge, not a threat.

The only part he doesn't like is that he doesn't see Bull at all. He barely has time to send the occasional text, and most of those consist of pictures of whatever meal he's about to eat, as the proof Bull jokingly demands. Actually meeting up, even for a quick lunch, is completely out of the question.

The client spends the entire week swinging wildly between sheer panic, unable to do anything without first calling someone from Lavellan & Cadash, and a misplaced desire to economize, begging them not to spend more time than necessary on the parts of this that actually matter.

"Cheap, fast, and good," Ellana finally tells them bluntly on Wednesday afternoon's second conference call. "You get to pick two, and right now, fast isn't optional. If you'd brought us in sooner, we wouldn't be in this mess, but you didn't. So now you get to pick: do you want cheap, or do you want good?"

Sitting beside her at the table, Dorian winces. Her relationship with this particular client has lasted longer than Dorian has been alive, so presumably they're used to her particular style, but it's still not anything he would ever say to any client. His own style is similar to Edric's: more carrot and less stick.

Of course, the stick is sometimes what people need, and that, at least, is the end of the grumbling about the bill they hadn't even seen yet. Dorian doesn't envy Ellana the conversation that will come three or four days after the accounting department mails out the bills for this month, but that's her problem, not his.

Knowing her, she'll probably enjoy it.

Even minus the complaining from the client, Thursday is hardly better than the days before. By ten-thirty that night, Dorian is beginning to think he'll never escape this conference room again. Everything outside it is like a dream, and his whole life is down to the rustle of papers and the quiet tapping of fingers on keyboards, broken up with quiet conversations that never last long. There are five of them in one of the larger conference rooms, papers and dirty coffee mugs fighting with laptops for the limited table space, and they've all worked together long enough that a few half sentences are all any of them need.

Dorian is just finishing up what must be the hundredth email he's sent to the client this week alone, when Ellana breaks the silence to say, "That's enough."

Four pairs of blinking, bleary eyes turn toward her, fingers going still on keyboards. Dorian's face feels stiff and awkward, not entirely under his control, but he forces it into something resembling an attentive look.

"We've got a long day tomorrow," Ellana says, "and we've got everything we need for that. All of you go home, get some sleep, eat something that doesn't come in a take-out bag. I need you sharp tomorrow."

Tomorrow, when they have not one, not two, not even three, but _four_ conference calls scheduled. Just thinking about it makes Dorian want to stab himself in the eye with the nearest pencil.

Rather than do anything so drastic, he shuffles his papers into some semblance of order and drags himself out to his car. Sitting in the dark parking lot, he considers calling Bull, but it's now almost eleven. Bull is either in bed or about to be there after working a long day of his own. It doesn't seem right to wake him up just because Dorian doesn't want to sleep alone. It's not like he even has something to say; after this week, he doesn't want to talk to anyone about anything.

He takes a deep breath and compromises by sending Bull a quick text, then puts his phone away and drives home to fall into bed, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor. Missing Bull isn't enough to keep him awake for more than three seconds, and he sleeps hard, without dreaming.

###

Friday is marginally better, if only because he heads into it on seven hours of sleep, which is a relative luxury after the rest of the week. It also helps that they get through the first major step in unwinding this problem. Dorian is even able to spend an entire hour on something else, though that hour begins after nine o'clock at night.

He leaves the office with Ellana at just before eleven, and as she gets in her car, she pauses to stab her finger in his direction. "Take tomorrow off," she says firmly.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, touching two fingers to his eyebrow in a mock salute.

She snorts but lets it go. They both know he'll work tomorrow, but he'll keep it light, mostly answering any non-urgent emails he's been ignoring this week. And he's fucking well going to do it from Bull's office, not his own.

He takes the time to send Bull a quick text, and he smiles at the response that comes back: _Good. Scenery's been shit all week._

It leaves him feeling light, a lightness that carries him through the night and all the way to the gym on Saturday morning. Bull is in the middle of an appointment when Dorian walks in, and as tempting as it is to interrupt him, Dorian heads for his office instead. A quick detour by the appointment book, which Krem turns toward him with an amused smile, helps with the temptation: there's only another ten minutes before the end of Bull's current session, and he has thirty minutes before the next one starts.

In the office, Dorian takes his sweet time getting his laptop out, and even once it's plugged in and turned on, he leaves it to one side, playing a game on his phone instead. Most of his attention is on the gym, listening for the sound of Bull's voice. When he hears it, he jumps to his feet, stuffing his phone back in his pocket as Bull appears in the doorway, smiling at him.

"You made it," Bull says. His eye jumps to Dorian's laptop, and his grin widens as he adds, "Make yourself at home."

"I already have," Dorian says.

"Not quite." He shuts the door firmly before crossing the office to take Dorian's face in his hands. The touch is surprisingly gentle, his fingertips brushing the hollows under Dorian's eyes. "Forget eating, I should've told you to sleep, huh?"

Dorian smiles wryly. "There wouldn't have been much point. I would have just ignored you."

"Like you ignored me about the eating?" Bull asks, clearly teasing.

"I ate!" Dorian protests, then adds, "When I remembered."

"When Minaeve remembered, you mean."

"Same difference," Dorian says with an airy wave.

"Right," Bull murmurs, bending down to kiss him. His mouth is as gentle as his fingers, touching Dorian's lips and cheeks. "You get some sleep last night, at least?"

"Enough that you can keep me _up_ late tonight," Dorian says, smiling as he turns to catch Bull's mouth.

Bull makes a skeptical noise even as he returns the kiss. "Don't take this wrong, but the way you look, I don't think you're going to make it through to quitting time."

Which is when Dorian's body turns traitor, a yawn overtaking his automatic protest.

"All right," he admits. "Maybe not quite enough sleep. But I still think I can last until eight."

###

He doesn't.

In fact, he doesn't even make it through the afternoon. By two o'clock, he can barely keep his eyes open, and by five, Bull has found him slumped over in the chair so often that Dorian starts leaving the office door open to let the noise from the gym keep him awake. It doesn't really help: by the time Bull's ready to go at eight, Dorian has long since put away his laptop for fear he'll drop it the next time he drifts off.

"You know I'm not letting you drive anywhere, right?" Bull says conversationally as they walk across the parking lot.

Dorian's having trouble making his eyes work together, and even he isn't stubborn enough to pretend otherwise. "Thank god."

Bull gives a startled laugh and slings an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close. "Let's get you into a real bed. If you keep sleeping in chairs, your back is going to be as bad as mine."

The drive to Bull's house isn't that long, but Dorian falls asleep anyway, head against the window, lulled by the steady hum of the tires on the pavement. He's so deeply asleep he doesn't know when they arrive, and he almost tumbles out of the car when Bull opens his door.

He does wake up enough to protest when Bull picks him up. "Your back."

"My back is fine, big guy," Bull says, the laugh clear in his voice. "Go back to sleep."

It's easier to press his face into Bull's shoulder than fight about something he doesn't actually want to fight about. Bull is here, and warm, and all Dorian wants is to be close to him.

Well, that and sleep.

He gets only vague impressions of the house, of Bull stripping him down and helping him under the blankets, of Bull climbing into bed with him though it's not that late.

"Don't have to," Dorian mumbles, even as he slides back to fit himself into the curve of Bull's body.

Bull kisses the back of his head and wraps an arm around him. "Go to sleep."

If he says anything else, Dorian doesn't remember it.

###

Ten hours of sleep later, he blinks open eyes that seem to have glued themselves shut overnight. His thoughts are a little muffled, and his mouth tastes like something died in it, but he feels almost human again.

Bull rolled over at some point during the night, leaving Dorian free to slip out of bed without waking him. One quick trip to the bathroom later, including a visit with his toothbrush, and crawling back into bed to sleep for another ten hours is no longer an overwhelming need.

When he comes out of the bathroom, Bull's eye is open, and he's smiling. "Look who decided to rejoin the land of the living." His voice is rough from sleep, and it occurs to Dorian that there might be other reasons to crawl back into bed.

"The land of the living may have a few perks." He crosses the bedroom to run a hand over Bull's scalp, enjoying the way the stubble scratches his palm, and enjoying even more the way Bull doesn't twitch when his fingers brush the edge of the scar. "What about you? I hope I didn't wake you up."

"Nah," Bull says, tilting his head into Dorian's hand. "I got up a couple hours ago."

Dorian raises both eyebrows. "And then decided to come back to bed?"

"It's where you were," Bull says. He catches Dorian's wrist, pulling it around to kiss the inside. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too." That feeling of lightness is back, filling his chest and leaving no room for anxiety.

"I missed your breakfasts, too," Bull adds, smiling.

"Ah, now I understand," Dorian says, smiling back. "Was that a hint?"

"Breakfast is good," Bull agrees, but he's watching Dorian's face. When he pulls carefully on Dorian's arm, Dorian doesn't resist.

Bull rolls them over until Dorian ends up on his stomach with Bull stretched out on top of him. His body is warm and heavy, pinning Dorian to the mattress while his mouth trails along Dorian's hairline, gentle kisses interspersed with the occasional sharp bite.

"If you keep that up," Dorian teases, "you're going to miss breakfast."

"And why would I miss it?" Bull asks, right in his ear. "Do you have plans I should know about that would get in the way of breakfast?"

"Maybe," Dorian says, grinding his ass against Bull's cock. "If you keep this up, then definitely."

Bull kisses the back of his neck again. "Tell me about these plans. I mean, I can't decide between your plan and breakfast if I don't know what you're thinking, right?" One of his hands combs gently through Dorian's hair. "You cook a pretty good breakfast, after all."

"So many choices," he muses, because there are. One in particular they haven't done recently, though. "But since I have to choose, I want you to fuck me."

Bull makes an approving noise. "Okay, you talked me into it."

Dorian laughs. "That was easy."

"All that persuasive lawyer stuff," Bull says, kissing the back of his neck again. "You could talk me into pretty much anything."

"I'll be sure to put that on my resume."

"You do that," Bull says as he rolls away. There's the sound of him rifling through the drawer on the bedside table, and Dorian pushes himself up onto hands and knees, already missing the warmth of Bull's body against his back.

He doesn't have to miss it for long before Bull is draped over him again. Slick fingers tease his ass without actually penetrating, and Bull's other arm wraps around his chest to hold him close so Bull can whisper in his ear. Words he's said before, in exactly that tone, but rather than reducing the impact, the echoes make Dorian harder as Bull's cock stretches him open.

The first few thrusts are slow and deep: all the way in and almost all the way back out, then in again so slowly that Dorian's groan is as much a protest as anything.

"Bull," he gasps out, when he can't stand it anymore.

"Yeah?" Bull asks. He's trying to sound casual, but Dorian can hear the strain under it.

"Will you please _fuck me_?"

The next thrust is a little harder. "Like that?" Bull asks, almost innocently.

"Harder," Dorian begs.

Bull mutters a curse against the back of his neck, hips snapping forward.

" _Harder._ " Dorian can barely breathe out the word, but oh god, he wants more.

Another muttered curse, and Bull's arm squeezing tighter around his chest. "Tell me if it gets too much," Bull says, voice unsteady.

Dorian nods jerkily, and he's barely finished before Bull proceeds to fuck him into the mattress. Every time Dorian whispers, "Harder," Bull obeys, and Dorian rocks back to meet him, wanting still more. Bull's chest is heavy against his back, forcing him down onto his elbows, and Bull's mouth is still by his ear, and Bull's cock is slamming into him harder and harder. One of Bull's hands is on his hip, guiding more than controlling, and the other is buried in Dorian's hair, fist closed so tight it makes Dorian's eyes water and his cock ache.

Without anything to rub against, he's not sure he can actually come like this, but it doesn't matter. All he wants is to have Bull close to him, whispering to him even if it's just disconnected words that never make it all the way to sentences. He wants to feel Bull's fingers dig in painfully hard as he pins their bodies together and comes, shaking and still whispering Dorian's name.

After a little while, Bull's breathing evens out and the hand on Dorian's hip lets go, stroking over his stomach and chest so Bull can rub his palm over one of the rings in his nipples. It makes Dorian jerk, and Bull gives a pained grunt even as he chuckles.

"Fuck, you're amazing," Bull says.

"I think you did all the work," Dorian says, rocking his hips back, knowing Bull is going to pull out soon but wanting to feel him. Wanting to come like this.

"Not all the work," Bull says. He kisses the back of Dorian's neck, smiling. "Not yet, anyway."

He doesn't give Dorian a chance to answer before he pushes himself up to his knees and then moves away. Dorian manages not to whine--barely--but he doesn't bother to sit up yet, just stays where he is with his head resting on his forearms and marks Bull's movements by the way the mattress shifts.

It shifts again and Bull is back beside him, hand stroking lightly over his hip. "Roll over," Bull murmurs.

Dorian does, though it's more of a flop than a roll, and blinks up at Bull, a little dazed by the sudden light. While he's still blinking, Bull rolls a condom onto his dick, and even that small contact is enough to make him groan.

"Shhhh," Bull says. "I got you, just another second."

He grabs something off the bedside table, something Dorian can't quite make out, and then his mouth is on Dorian's cock and it doesn't matter anymore.

A small part of him is disappointed, wanting Bull wrapped around him again, but it's difficult to think about that instead of what Bull is doing. He sucks on the head of Dorian's cock before licking his way down the shaft, tongue warm and wet against Dorian's balls, teeth sharp against the insides of his thighs.

The soft heat of his mouth is a startling contrast to the hard, cold head of the dildo he touches to the skin behind Dorian's balls, and Dorian gasps, eyes snapping open. Bull is watching him intently, and he doesn't look away as he moves the toy back between the cheeks of Dorian's ass. Glass or metal, it's cold and completely smooth as he slides it in. He doesn't move fast, but he doesn't hesitate either, and his free hand on Dorian's thigh stops his involuntary backward jerk.

After the initial shock of it, Dorian relaxes, already enjoying the way the cold makes him intensely aware of every inch as it slides in and out. Even once it warms up, the smooth glide is intriguingly different from a flesh-and-blood cock, and Bull knows exactly how to angle it to have him grabbing for the sheets. Added to the mouth expertly sucking him off, Dorian is back on the edge so fast he's dizzy with it, his eyes closing as he chases the sensations pinging through him.

He's barely gotten them closed when Bull shifts, and somehow, Dorian's ass is a foot off the bed, his legs over Bull's shoulders and Bull's free hand splayed at the small of his back to support his weight. Dorian's eyes are wide open again, staring down--up?--at Bull where he's doing his best to swallow the entire length of Dorian's cock.

"What-?" Dorian gasps, though it's perfectly obvious what.

Bull releases his cock and says with a teasing grin, "If you say anything about my back, I'm going to tie you down and get the syrup, and then we'll have breakfast _my_ way."

It's not something Dorian is quite comfortable joking about, not when Bull seems determined to pretend his back is perfectly fine all the time, but the threat is so outrageous, his grin so infectious, that Dorian gives a long-suffering sigh and closes his eyes as if preparing to tolerate something unpleasant for the good of the cause.

Then his eyes pop open a third time when Bull bites the inside of his thigh, hard. "Look at me," Bull says, no longer teasing. His voice has gone low and commanding, and his gaze feels like it's burning its way under Dorian's skin.

"I'm looking." It's not supposed to come out as a whisper, but it does.

"Good," Bull says. He sucks gently on the head of Dorian's cock for a long moment, then pulls off to add, "Keep looking until I say you can stop."

Dorian nods, not trusting his voice, and Bull smiles. Still smiling, still holding eye contact, he lowers his head to take Dorian's cock back into his mouth, pushing slowly down until his lips are wrapped around the base and the angle has to be choking him. There's no hint of that in his face: he watches Dorian like he could stay this way forever, like there's nothing else in the world as important as catching any tiny shift in Dorian's expression.

The world is dissolving into pure sensation, Bull's mouth and Bull's hands and the toy in his ass that moves when he does, little shifts that are just enough to remind him it's there. It's warmed to body temperature now, but the hard length of it is stretching him open, filling him up, giving Bull another way to fuck him even as his mouth teases until Dorian wants to beg. Keeping his eyes open is becoming more and more of a challenge.

He's losing the fight, his breath coming fast, when Bull lets go of his cock to say, "You can close your eyes if you want."

Except now that he's allowed, he doesn't know if he wants to: watching Bull is hot in its own right, the way he sucks Dorian's cock like he's the one on the receiving end. His hand on the small of Dorian's back feels huge, and his gaze has an almost palpable weight. Dorian is caught between the two, surrounded as completely as he was with Bull stretched out on top of him, no longer thinking about anything except Bull and the heat spreading through his body.

His eyes squeeze closed right at the end, heels digging into Bull's shoulders, needing to move and unable to do anything except twist helplessly, hands fisted in the sheets as he comes. Bull's mouth stays hot around his cock, sucking until he whines out a protest, caught between wanting more and needing to get away from a sensation that's now too much.

Laughing softly, Bull lets him back down to the bed, both hands rubbing over his sides and across his chest. "There," Bull says, voice gravelly and satisfied. " _Now_ I've done all the work."

Dorian's throat is dry from gasping, and the sound he makes is as much cough as laugh. "Your-" he wheezes. Coughs again, starts over. "Your effort is duly noted and appreciated."

"Glad to hear it." Bull kisses the hollow at the top of Dorian's leg, where thigh becomes hip, and Dorian can feel the smile against his skin. "I'd hate to waste all that _hard_ work."

"You're incorrigible," Dorian says, trying to stop the laugh from bubbling up.

"Well, yeah," Bull drawls. "And you can encourage me anytime."

Laughing kicks off another coughing fit, one that lasts until Bull brings him a cup of water, but Dorian doesn't care in the least.


	32. No Sacrifice Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I can see it clearly  
> Why you feel me  
> Why you got to bring me down  
> No, I don't want to fight you  
> Just to spite you  
> But I'm not afraid to take you out
> 
> No, I'm sorry to say  
> There'll be no sacrifice today
> 
> David Brenner, Dean Back, and Tyler Connolly, "Sacrifice" (if you like to have music that fits the story, then that song is perfect for this chapter)

The next week is long, even if it's not nearly as long as the last one, and Bull once again finds himself unexpectedly lonely. That was the strangest thing about the last week, that realization of how much Dorian has invaded his life. Every night he goes to bed alone, Bull can't help but laugh. He used to sleep alone most nights, so when did it start feeling like a bad thing?

About twelve hours after he met Dorian, if he's honest.

At least Dorian has more time to text this week, which means Bull gets treated to daily rants about the client who kicked off this whole mess in the first place. There are never any details that might give him a hint who the client is, and half the time he has to check Google for a crash course in legalese before he understands, but Dorian is as funny as he is scathing. Bull starts to look forward to the times he comes back from an appointment to find a wall of text from Dorian, some new story laid out one snarky text at a time.

Thursday night, Dorian calls as Bull is leaving the gym, and Bull is so glad to talk to him, he doesn't even have to remind himself not to answer the phone like he's still in the army.

"Done skewering people for today?" he asks.

"Alas, I find I'm all out of skewers," Dorian says dryly. "I'll have to pick some up on my way home."

"Get the kind with the little umbrellas," Bull says with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Or the little plastic swords!"

"I'll take that under advisement, though it may not be necessary. We seem to have mostly wrapped this mess up, at least for the moment."

"That's great!" In the middle of unlocking his car door, Bull almost drops keys and phone both and has to scramble to avoid a very sudden end to the conversation. "That's really great!" he adds, when he has a solid grip on his phone again.

"Well, until someone manages to fuck it up," Dorian mutters, but when he goes on, he's more cheerful. "I've done my part to ensure we have a ridiculous number of billable hours for the month, so I don't feel any special need to work on Saturday. I was thinking we could get a late dinner, once you're done at the gym."

"Or we could get dinner tomorrow night. I can swap someone for the late shift next Friday." He's never done that before, rearranged the schedule after it's set just because he wants to do something, but he really wants to see Dorian. It's like an itch he can't scratch, and it gets worse the more days that pass. It was nice to spend the weekend with him, but Bull is used to seeing him more often than that, and it's not a routine he wants to change.

Dorian makes an apologetic noise. "Not tomorrow, not unless you want to wait until ten or eleven to eat anything. There's a charity dinner I'm supposed to attend, and since this latest crisis is mostly put to bed, I don't really have an excuse to skip it."

To hide his disappointment, Bull teases, "So you're saying that working until twenty-three-hundred hours because of someone else's fuckup is more fun than going to a party?"

"Of course," Dorian says. "The parties are obligatory. The work is fun, even if I do sometimes want to kill the client responsible."

He's only half joking, Bull knows, and maybe not even that much. The longer Bull spends around Dorian, the more he thinks Max was exactly right, but it's hard to know whether he should say anything. It's Dorian's choice, after all, and he's had enough people in his life pushing him around. Does Bull really want to join that line?

On the other end of the phone, Dorian is way too quiet. Bull can practically hear him thinking too hard about something.

He opens him mouth to say, "Talk to me," when Dorian blurts out, "I miss you. And I hate that I haven't seen you all week, and that it will be another two days before I can see you again, but I can't skip this. It's one of our biggest clients, and all the partners are expected to be in attendance."

There's an edge to the end of that sentence, and Bull finds himself saying, "I could come with you."

The pause that follows is long. Long enough for Bull to get in the car, close the door, start the engine, fiddle with the air conditioner, take off the parking brake, put it back on, fiddle with the air conditioner some more, and check that, yes, he can in fact raise and lower all four of the car's windows. One at a time _and_ simultaneously.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Dorian says neutrally, about the time Bull finishes raising his window for the second time.

He doesn't go on, and even though Bull is pretty sure he knows the answer, he can't stop himself from asking, "Why not?"

"You know why not," Dorian snaps. It's followed immediately by the sound of him taking a deep breath before he adds quietly, "I'm sorry. It's been a long week, but I shouldn't take it out on you."

"Forget it," Bull says. That itchy feeling from earlier wants to turn into anger at Dorian, but he squashes it ruthlessly. "And yeah, I know why not."

Dorian takes another deep, deep breath. "Can we not talk about this now?"

On the phone, when they're both tired and they haven't seen much of each other in the last two weeks. Bull takes a deep breath of his own and says, "Okay." Then he can't help adding, "But we're going to have to talk about it at some point."

"Not tonight," Dorian says softly.

"Not tonight," Bull agrees. He toys with the lock on his car door, trying to think of something else to say--this would be a shitty note to end on--and eventually he just says, "I miss you, too."

"I'm hoping next week will be better." Dorian sounds wistful, almost sad. "So I might actually see you more than once."

"You could come over tonight." As he says it, Bull glances at the clock and winces.

"We both have to be at work early," Dorian says, but he doesn't sound like he's convincing himself.

"Come over," Bull says. "I know we'll both need to crash as soon as you get there, but so what? Just...come over."

"I'll need to stop at home and get a change of clothes for tomorrow." It's such a quick surrender that Bull smiles.

"Okay," he says, then adds impulsively, "You could just keep some clothes there, you know. Not like I'm hurting for closet space."

"You're not using it, so someone might as well?" Dorian asks, sounding amused.

"Exactly!" He tries to get back some of the silliness from earlier, and it's a relief when Dorian laughs softly.

"All right," Dorian says. "Thirty minutes? I'm almost home now."

"Thirty minutes," Bull agrees.

When they're off the phone, he rubs his palms over the steering wheel and thinks about the number of Lavellan & Cadash events where Dorian has to smile like nothing's wrong while Rilienus lurks in the background. It makes Bull want to punch something.

Or rather, _someone_ , but since that someone isn't around to be punched, he drives home instead, focusing intently on every lane change and stoplight.

At home, he takes a shower, then gets out what he needs for a late dinner of scrambled eggs and toast, waiting until he hears Dorian's car in the driveway before he turns on the stove. He's just pouring the eggs into the pan when Dorian wanders into the kitchen to lean against the counter beside him.

Once the eggs are safely in the pan, Bull turns to get a kiss and catches Dorian mid-lean, looking for the same thing. They almost crack heads, and they're both laughing as they try again, more successfully this time, lips brushing in a series of small kisses until Bull has to pull away to stir the eggs.

Dorian settles back against the counter and drawls, "So, how was your day, dear?"

Bull shoots him an amused look. "Just fine, dear. I hear yours involved skewers."

"But not enough." Dorian fakes an exaggerated scowl. "Some people need more than others."

"I can make you a list," Bull says, thinking of a couple of regulars at the gym who he keeps hoping will find somewhere else to work out. They're not bad guys, but they're irritating as fuck. Though maybe he should just be glad the gym is doing well enough that he can think something other than, "Thank god they're here."

"I've already got my own list," Dorian says dryly. "You'll have to handle your own." His smile takes any sting out of the words, as does the way he rests his cheek briefly against Bull's shoulder. "Or wait until next week."

"Nah, I think I got it," Bull says. He reaches over long enough to rub his fingers over Dorian's scalp, mussing his hair in the process. It's a sign of how tired Dorian is that he doesn't make even a token protest.

They're quiet, then, an easy silence that stretches through dinner and all the way to the bedroom. Curled up in bed with Dorian pressed against his back, one arm around his waist, Bull laces their fingers together against his stomach and falls asleep almost instantly.

###

Friday is busy enough that Bull doesn't get much time to think about Dorian, but when he does have a moment, it's not last night he thinks about. Tonight's dinner is on his mind more than he likes, maybe more than is healthy for something he can't do anything about. Rilienus will either be there, or he won't. He'll either say something, or he won't.

It briefly crosses Bull's mind that he could ask Max, but even if Max will be at the dinner--and there's no guarantee he will--Bull doesn't need to learn that lesson twice. He's not going to ask anyone except Dorian about Dorian's business.

The day is normal enough, at least, and Dorian's texts are as snarky as usual. They taper off after eighteen-thirty, at what Bull guesses is the time the dinner starts, but they don't stop completely, and nothing seems off. It bugs him anyway, wondering what might be happening and whether Dorian is doing okay. If he was there, at least he'd know what was going on.

He feels kind of stupid when Dorian arrives at his house a little after twenty-two hundred hours, tired but otherwise fine. If anything, Bull is the one holding on to the hug too long.

"Are you all right?" Dorian asks, his voice muffled against Bull's shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm good," Bull says without letting go. He squeezes the back of Dorian's neck, rubbing his fingers over the soft fuzz of hair and breathing in the faint hint of Dorian's shampoo before he takes the plunge. "If I promise not to glare, can I come with you next time?"

Dorian goes rigid, though at least he doesn't try to pull away. "To the next L&C party?"

"Yeah," Bull says. "I worry about you."

"I can take care of myself." Dorian's voice is almost as stiff as his shoulders.

"I know you can," Bull says, "but I think worrying goes with the boyfriend territory, right?"

"Mm." It's not a very encouraging answer.

"No glaring and no skewering," Bull says, hoping to get at least a smile. "No matter how many little plastic swords I can find."

"If you can find plastic swords of any size at anything L&C hosts, I'll be shocked." He sounds like he might be smiling, but his shoulders are still tense.

"No plastic swords?" Bull demands. "Then never mind, I don't want to go. What's a party without potentially lethal party favors?"

Dorian snorts out a laugh, sounding surprised as much as amused. "I'll keep that in mind," he says, pulling gently away from the hug. "Especially if you invite me to any parties you're hosting."

"Hey," Bull protests, "don't listen to Krem. That thing with the fireworks only happened _once_."

He worries for a second that mentioning Krem will bring the tension right back, but Dorian just shakes his head, smiling faintly. "I hope you at least keep the fire extinguishers handy."

"Of course we do," Bull says, pretending to be offended. "I mean, we're not _reckless_."

"Of course," Dorian murmurs. He's relaxing again, and when Bull leans down for a kiss, he returns it with interest.

Bull doesn't push for an answer to his question, no matter how many logical arguments his brain presents him with. This isn't a debate, where he can win by convincing Dorian he's right. All arguing will get him is shut out completely, and probably justifiably. He can't win, but he can definitely lose.

So as painful as it is, he lets it go. "You coming to the gym tomorrow?"

"Has the scenery been sub-par again?" Dorian asks.

"You know, it's a funny coincidence," Bull says, "but whenever you're not there, I don't like my office nearly as much."

"Correlation doesn't equal causation, I'm told."

"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure there's a causal relationship on this one." The words startle another laugh from Dorian, and Bull awards himself a point. "Want to help me test my hypothesis? It's for science!"

"Oh, well, then how can I say no?" Dorian tucks his head under Bull's chin, wrapping his arms around Bull's waist. "I wouldn't want to stand in the way of scientific advancement."

The end of his sentence disappears into a yawn, and Bull has to tense his jaw against one of his own. "Bed? Scientific advancement starts early tomorrow."

"In a minute," Dorian says, tightening his arms and burrowing his face into Bull's neck. It takes the last of the sting out of their earlier argument, and Bull kisses side of his head. He can wait as long as Dorian needs.

**###**

Saturday morning is, well, Saturday morning, and despite all his teasing, Bull doesn't actually get to see the inside of his office until after nine. When he does finally collapse in his desk chair, Dorian is so deep in thought he barely glances up. He's looking at his laptop screen like he can glare the right answers out of it, and Bull wonders how dead he would be if he dared to tell Dorian how cute he looks.

Before he can decide if it's worth the risk, Dorian's phone buzzes from its place on the corner of Bull's desk. Without taking his eyes off his laptop, Dorian picks it up, then holds it in his hand, still buzzing, while he continues to read whatever's on his screen.

Bull manages not to laugh. Barely.

The phone has been quiet for at least two minutes before Dorian blinks and looks down at it, his frown turning faintly puzzled, as if he can't figure out why it's in his hand. He thumbs the screen on absently, half his attention clearly still on his laptop, then freezes, staring down at his phone like it bit him.

His face goes on complete lockdown as he raises the phone to his ear. By his silence, Bull assumes he's listening to his voicemail, and it isn't hard to guess who that voicemail might be from.

Sure enough, when Dorian drops the phone back to his lap, he says quietly, "It's my mother."

"What's she want?" Bull asks, trying to sound curious rather than hostile.

"Oh, lunch, of course," Dorian says.

"Today?"

"Of course today. It wouldn't do to give me too much warning, else I'd find an excuse."

He sounds resigned, and Bull hates that. "You don't have to do it, you know. If you don't want to."

"I know."

"I know you know. Just thought maybe a reminder was good."

At least that makes Dorian smile. "Maybe." He looks back at his phone, weighing it in his hand thoughtfully. "I don't _want_ to want to do it, if that makes any sense?"

It makes too damn much sense. "Yeah."

"I suppose it doesn't have to be today," Dorian says, as if to himself. His fingers rub over the edge of the phone before he notices what he's doing and sets it very deliberately back down on Bull's desk. "You wanted to come with me last night," he says, wrapping his fingers around the edges of his laptop. "To dinner."

Not hard to guess where this is going. "Lunch, dinner, it's all the same to me," Bull says with an exaggerated shrug, even as he hopes Dorian is serious about not doing lunch today. "I'm always happy to keep you company."

The corner of Dorian's mouth twitches. "You'll only be that blasé about lunch with my mother until you've actually done it."

Bull puts one hand solemnly over his heart. "I promise not to run screaming before the check arrives."

"Such a relief." His tone is sarcastic, but he's smiling for real now.

As soon as he looks at his phone, though, the smile vanishes, and he squares his shoulders like he's about to face a firing squad. "Once more unto the breach, dear friends."

"And close the wall up with our English dead?" Bull asks.

Dorian's smile comes back, crooked and surprised. "Not just a pretty face, I see."

"Wouldn't want you to get bored," Bull says, smiling back to show he's kidding. "Besides, it's _Henry V_. All the good fighting speeches are in that one."

"And why do I suspect that you know more than just that one play?" He pretends to look thoughtful. "Since I seem to recall a _Macbeth_ quote somewhere along the way."

"Oh, probably," Bull says cheerfully. Then he points at the phone, before the conversation can get too far off track. "Time to imitate the action of the tiger, and all that shit."

"Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood?"

Bull waggles his eyebrows. "Maybe later. I've got appointments all afternoon." And fuck, he hadn't meant to say that out loud, at least not until Dorian confirmed when and where lunch would be.

If Dorian notices his quick glance at the clock, he doesn't say anything about it, just mutters, "Dishonor not your mothers?" as he picks his phone back up.

"That's up to you," Bull says.

"Unfortunately, yes." Dorian scowls at his phone, but at least it's some kind of expression. Bull will take a scowl over blankness any day. "I suppose I should get this over with."

"Want me to leave you alone?" Bull asks.

"I'd rather you didn't, actually."

Before Bull can say anything to that, Dorian taps the screen and raises the phone to his ear. His shoulders are straight again, and his face is falling back into bland politeness.

Yeah, Bull would definitely rather have the scowl.

Since he can't do anything about it, he turns to his own computer to pay a couple bills while he listens with half an ear to Dorian's side of the conversation.

"Mother." His voice is chilly, and it occurs to Bull for the first time that the coldness has to be deliberate. Dorian could fake warmth if he wanted to, and the fact that he doesn't is a slap in the face that Aquinea has to recognize for what it is. "Yes, I got your message."

Bull turns to the next invoice in the stack, and he's distracted for a moment, skimming the page in an effort to find the amount due. By the time he finds it and finishes swearing internally at companies who can't send readable invoices, he's missed part of the conversation, tuning back in just as Dorian says, "...Tuesday."

Tuesday? What about Tuesday? Shit.

Aquinea says something, her voice too quiet for Bull to make out the words, and Dorian snaps, "No, I don't have time today. If you're not available Tuesday, then we'll have to try again some other time."

_Don't call us, we'll call you,_ Bull thinks with a grin, relieved that he doesn't have to find some way to rearrange his afternoon just because Aquinea wants to fuck with Dorian's head. He'd have done it, but it would have been a total pain in the ass.

Dorian makes a noise Bull can't interpret, and his face isn't any help. His eyes are closed, too, so Bull can't even give him a smile for encouragement.

"This isn't negotiable, Mother," Dorian says. "I will meet you for lunch, on Tuesday, with Bull." His eyebrows draw in, very briefly, then he adds, "You're free to pick whatever restaurant you like."

Aquinea's answer goes on long enough that Bull tries to get back to his invoices. There are more than enough of them to keep him busy, that's for sure, but it's hard to concentrate on the electric bill when Dorian is doing a good impression of a live wire.

"Noon," Dorian says briskly. "We'll see you then."

He doesn't wait for an answer before disconnecting and letting his head drop back against the wall with a soft thump.

"Was it as fun as it sounded?" Bull asks.

"Nearly." He sounds drained, and there's a crease between his eyebrows like he's got a headache. "I hope Tuesday at noon is good for you?"

"Just fine," Bull says. "This really is going to be fun, huh?"

"A thrill," Dorian says. Without opening his eyes, he raises both hands in the air and waves them in the most bored imitation of enthusiasm Bull's ever seen. "Whee."

"We could do something afterward," Bull offers.

Dorian picks up his phone and flips through a couple screens, his mouth tightening at whatever he sees. "Not actually. I have a meeting at three."

"So it's going to be a really fun afternoon for you," Bull says.

"Oh, absolutely." Dorian snorts and puts his phone away. "I'd rather have the meeting than the lunch, honestly."

"Then why are we doing this?" Bull asks.

"Damned if I know," Dorian says. He picks his laptop up and settles it in his lap like he's going to go back to glaring answers out of it, but somehow, Bull doesn't think he's actually seeing it this time.

Since he doesn't seem to want to talk about it, Bull picks up the next bill in the stack and squints at the weird font someone decided to use. Is that a six, or an eight? Hell if he knows.

"I keep hoping she'll apologize." Dorian's voice is quiet, but it's so sudden that it startles Bull anyway.

"Do you think she will?"

"Almost certainly not," Dorian says. He rubs his thumb over the edge of the laptop screen, his gaze far away. "And I don't know why I care. Her approval shouldn't matter anymore."

"Fuck 'should'," Bull says, relieved when Dorian smiles. "And if you don't have time after lunch, then we'll do something later."

"After your game?" Dorian asks. His tone is odd again, and his hand has stopped moving.

"We should be done with dinner by twenty-one-hundred," Bull says, bracing internally for whatever's coming next. "That work for you?"

"That's fine." He hesitates for a second before saying, "I...thought I might join you, next week. For the game. Krem and I talked about it, but then everything went to shit at work, and I don't think I ever told you."

He's almost babbling, and Bull cuts in when he pauses for breath. "That's great!" he says, hoping it will be. Another repeat of last time isn't what any of them needs right now. "You know where it is?"

"I remember," Dorian says, because of course he does. He drums his fingers once, lightly, against the back of the laptop screen and says with forced lightness, "Six? I assume the dress code is jeans and t-shirts?"

"Jeans you don't mind ruining," Bull says.

"I can think of more fun ways for you to ruin a pair of my jeans." He's smiling a little, the humor no longer forced. "But noted."

Reminded, Bull asks, "And the dress code for lunch?"

"It will depend on what she picks." Dorian shrugs one shoulder. "I'll let you know, but it's lunch. If it were dinner, it would almost certainly be somewhere she thinks you won't own anything that will be up to the dress code, but lunch should be safe enough."

"She's a piece of work, isn't she?"

"That's one way to put it," Dorian says, but he turns back to his work with a faint smile on his face, and that's all Bull really wanted.

###

Lunch, it turns out, isn't any safer than dinner. Dorian texts on Monday afternoon with a link to the restaurant's website, and Bull has to marvel at both the website and at Aquinea's talent for finding someplace where lunch is fancier than the fanciest dinner Bull's ever attended. The website is a work of art, without a price to be seen anywhere, and Bull suspects they don't have enough dollar sign symbols on Yelp for what this lunch is going to cost.

_Dress code?_ he texts Dorian, after he's looked at the website twice.

_Khakis and polo,_ Dorian texts back immediately.

Bull looks at the website again and resists the urge to text back, _Really?_ Instead, he sends, _You're wearing...?_

_Suit is charcoal grey with tasteful pinstripe. Red tie. Silk, of course. But I can pretend I'm naked if you want._

What? _You got a clothing schedule?_ Bull texts back.

_Ohhhhh,_ Dorian sends, and Bull can practically hear his tone, somewhere between sarcasm and fake innocence. _You meant for tomorrow._

Bull smiles even as he shakes his head. _Yeah. Tomorrow._

_Khakis and polo,_ Dorian answers.

_Casual Tuesday at L &C?_ Bull asks, with some sarcasm of his own.

_Hardly,_ Dorian sends. _Casual day means no tie._

Bull doesn't doubt that for a second. He also doesn't doubt that Dorian will drive all the way home just to change into khakis and a polo shirt for lunch, then drive back home to change again before he goes back to work. Just to spite his mother.

###

As far as Bull can tell, that's exactly what happens. He arrives at the restaurant at ten minutes to noon on Tuesday, and there's Dorian, wearing exactly what he said he'd be wearing: khakis with a crease so sharp Bull could shave with it, and a polo shirt so clean the tag might still be on it.

"Hey," Bull says as he walks up. Dorian is lounging at the corner just out of sight from the restaurant door, looking completely bored with everything.

The boredom melts away when he sees Bull, a smile transforming his face, and Bull can't help but smile back. His smile widens when Dorian hooks a finger in between two of the buttons on Bull's shirt to pull himself up for a kiss.

Bull wants to run a hand through his hair, but arriving at lunch looking like they've been groping each other in the parking lot is probably not a good plan. He sticks with cupping Dorian's cheek, his thumb stroking over Dorian's cheekbone as he bends down for another quick kiss.

"Have I mentioned that I like your smile?" he says as he straightens, letting his thumb move from Dorian's cheek to the corner of his mouth.

"You could tell me again," Dorian says, turning his head so that Bull's thumb is pressing against his lips.

Bull takes his hand back before he does anything he really shouldn't do in the middle of the sidewalk, in downtown, at the lunch hour. "Probably better to save it for later."

"I'll hold you to that," Dorian says.

Bull leers, just to make him smile again. "You can hold other things, too."

"Perhaps I will," Dorian says coyly. Then he grimaces. "But first we have to make it through lunch."

"And meetings?"

"And meetings," Dorian agrees.

Bull takes a few steps toward the restaurant door, turning back when he realizes Dorian isn't following him. "Noon, right?" He glances at his watch, and sure enough, it's four minutes 'til. "Don't we need to get in there?"

"Haven't you heard of being fashionably late?" Dorian asks.

"I don't like to be late," Bull points out. "Fashionably or otherwise."

Dorian's mouth thins. "I remember."

"Either we're doing this, or we're not," Bull says, as gently as he can. "You know I'll back you, whichever way you go, but if we're doing it, then let's do it."

"Must you be so reasonable?" Dorian asks, but there's no bite to it. "I'd much rather be childish and make her wait."

He's already headed for the door, though, so Bull just says, "I know," as he falls in step beside him.

"Let the fun begin," Dorian mutters, right before he opens the restaurant door.

"Whee?"

Dorian's smile appears and disappears in a blink, completely gone by the time he's facing down the hostess. And he's definitely facing her down, though he isn't rude about it. There's a way he walks the three short steps between the door and the hostess stand that doesn't so much challenge her over the dress code as ignore the entire issue. He's here, and this is how he's dressed, so this is how people here should be dressed. The kind of confidence that goes all the way down and doesn't leave any room for doubt.

It's really hot, and Bull makes a mental note to tell him so tonight.

First he's got to get through this lunch, though. Aquinea is at a table in a semi-private corner of the room, and she rises to greet them as they approach. She gives their clothes a disapproving look but says nothing, kissing the air an inch from Dorian's cheek.

"Hello, Dorian," she says.

"Mother," he says tightly, making no move to return her "kiss."

She gives him another look, this one disappointed, then holds out her hand to Bull. It's the same limp handshake he remembers from the night they met, and it's no more fun this time than it was then.

"Mr. Hassrad," she says, withdrawing her hand without giving him a chance to decide if he should shake it or kiss it. "So nice to see you again."

Whatever happens, he reminds himself, he's here for Dorian. "Thank you, ma'am," he says, because he's not going to try to spit out "Mrs. Thalrassian-Pavus" every time he wants to address her. Just...no. "Nice to see you, too."

"Shall we?" she asks, gesturing at the table as someone who has to be their waiter approaches the table. "I've taken the liberty of ordering the tasting menu for all of us."

"The tasting menu," Dorian says flatly. Bull doesn't know what the issue is, but by his tone, there's something. The waiter isn't oblivious, either, because he hesitates, clearly afraid to step into the middle of this.

"As I don't believe either of you has been here before," Aquinea says, way too casually, "I thought it would allow you the chance to get a feel for their style."

"And make lunch last three hours," Dorian says.

"A good meal takes time, Dorian." Aquinea sits in her chair like it's a throne, allowing the nervously hovering waiter to spread her napkin over her lap. "Food should be savored, not...shoveled in." Her tone on the last two words is full of a delicate contempt. Max only wishes he could match her, Bull thinks with a laugh he manages to keep inside.

Dorian is still standing, and Bull looks at him, trying to tell him silently that it's up to him. If Dorian wants to walk, they'll walk. They can go see a movie, or walk around downtown, or do any of a hundred things that will be more fun than sitting here trading subtle insults over a meal that will probably cost more than the gym's weekly payroll. And if Dorian wants to stay, they'll stay. Three hours with Aquinea will suck, but it's not the worst thing that's ever happened to Bull, not by a long shot.

Whether Dorian _wants_ to stay or not, he does sit, so Bull sits, too, folding himself into a chair that wasn't designed for someone his size. It's probably comfortable for someone smaller--it's more like an armchair than a kitchen chair--but the arms aren't quite wide enough and the seat isn't quite long enough. As if this lunch needed to be any more uncomfortable. It's actually kind of funny, the too-small chair pushing the whole thing into a comedy skit that makes it even harder for Bull to keep a straight face.

"Remind me what you do, Mr. Hassrad," Aquinea says, reaching for her water glass.

"I own a gym," he tells her. "I started it a couple years ago, after I got out of the army."

"A gym," she says, and there's that condescending tone Max imitates but can't quite hit. Probably because he's not enough of an asshole, no matter how hard he tries. "How charming."

"It's doing pretty well," he says cheerfully, pretending he doesn't catch her tone.

"Running your own business must be rather a lot of work." She's moved on to the tone Bull remembers from their first meeting, the one she used on Dorian that implied he hadn't actually done the work that got him where he is.

More than her using it on him, it's the reminder of her using that voice on Dorian that gets under his skin, but he's not going to let her know that. "It's not always easy," he agrees. "I work some long hours, but it's worth it."

"His days are longer than mine," Dorian says, a hint of challenge in his voice.

"Only sometimes," Bull says, reaching under the table to squeeze his knee. "But the gym is really doing great, and that's amazing. So many businesses fail in their first year, it's great to be one of the ones that made it."

"Well," Aquinea says, taking a sip of her water and setting the glass down with exquisite care. "Certainly the first year isn't the only time a business can fail, but that's very nice for you."

Under Bull's hand, Dorian's leg tenses, and Bull squeezes harder, half reassurance and half warning. "Oh, sure, there's always a risk, but I just take it one day at a time. Do what I can and try not to worry about the rest."

"How very free spirited," she says.

If Bull cared what she thought, her tone would definitely be pissing him off, but he doesn't. Besides, if she's picking at him, then she's not picking at Dorian.

"I like to think of it as being practical," he says mildly, smiling as if Dorian's leg isn't jumping under his hand. "No point worrying about stuff I can't change, right?"

"Of course," she murmurs.

The server puts in an appearance with the first course--the first of _seven_ , Bull learns--and there's a pause in the conversation as they eat the tiny bites sitting in beautiful and lonely glory in the center of plates that are way too big for them. Bull has no idea what he's eating, but it's amazing, flavors he doesn't even have names for bursting on his tongue and then melding together into new flavors he still can't name.

"That was great," he says, heartfelt, when he's scraped the last traces off his plate. "Really great."

"I'm glad you approve," Aquinea says, her tone so perfectly calibrated no could ever say she was being sarcastic. "It's quite a lovely restaurant. You should come here again."

As if Bull could afford this place. Which she knows, and he knows she knows, so he shrugs it off and says with a grin for Dorian, "I'll have to check with my sugar daddy."

He catches her off guard enough that she blinks twice in real surprise before she gets control of her face again. "I'll leave that to your discretion," she says, taking another sip of water. Bull suspects it's to cover her while she thinks of her next insult, but who knows. Maybe she's just really thirsty.

Going on the offensive is always an option, but Bull is starting to enjoy himself in this game of verbal aikido. It's a lot more fun to let her exert all the effort while he just deflects.

Now if he could just find some way to communicate that to Dorian, who might explode before the next course arrives. Bull puts his hand under the table again, rubbing Dorian's leg as best he can without drawing too much attention to the movement.

"You were in the army, you said?" she asks as she sets her glass down and the server arrives to clear their plates.

"Twenty-two years," he says proudly. Partly because he is proud of it, and partly because he knows it will irritate her.

"Impressive," she says, like it's the least impressive thing she's heard all year. "Twenty-two years..." She hums thoughtfully, then asks, "So you would have retired as a sergeant major, then?"

He has to give her credit. The obvious insult would have been to underestimate his rank, to make it sound like she doesn't think he's capable of any real accomplishments. It's a master stroke to overestimate it, to put him in the position of having to correct her to something lower. Or, it would be a master stroke if he was worried Dorian would think less of him for it.

Since he's not worried about that, it's easy to say, "First sergeant, actually. If I'd stayed another few years, I'd probably have made sergeant major."

As soon as the words are out, he wants to take them back, but it's too late. She pounces on the opening and asks with polite curiosity, "So you retired to start your gym? An interesting choice for someone so close to such a prestigious promotion."

"We're done," Dorian says quietly. He stands despite Bull's hand pushing down on his knee, folding his napkin and setting it beside his plate with precise movements. "Enjoy your lunch, Mother."

"But, Dorian," she says, eyes wide, "we've barely gotten started."

He looks at her, his face as carefully blank as Bull's ever seen it. "I'm aware," he says quietly. "And that's why we're done." He transfers his gaze to Bull and cocks an eyebrow. "How do you feel about McDonald's for lunch?"

Not enthusiastic, but he's not going to say so. Much better to stand up and link his fingers with Dorian's as he says sincerely, "Hey, I'm good wherever you are." He deliberately doesn't look at Aquinea. The message isn't for her, after all.

Dorian smiles very faintly and grips his hand for a hard squeeze before letting go to lead the way out of the restaurant, at a casual pace that screams, "fuck you!" to his mother. Aquinea doesn't call after them, even though Bull can feel her eyes burning a hole in the back of his neck.

Out on the sidewalk, Dorian picks up his pace, stretching out his legs into a long stride that leaves Bull behind for a surprised second. He hurries to catch up, then has to step sideways just as fast to avoid a collision when Dorian reaches the corner and rounds on him.

"You don't have to sit quietly and take her abuse!" Dorian says, voice low and furious.

Bull's head jerks back. "Whoa there, big guy!"

"No!" Dorian says, stepping into Bull's space. "There's no 'whoa' here. She had no right!"

He should look ridiculous, trying to intimidate someone Bull's size, especially since he's so close he has to tip his head back to make eye contact, but there's that same aura of command he had when they walked into the restaurant. Like he's in control and no one would dare think anything else.

It's still hot as hell, and Bull has to blink to get his mind back in the right gear. "Hey," he says softly, reaching out to touch Dorian's shoulder. "I'm not arguing with you about her. You're right, she doesn't get to just dig around until she finds the right button to make me jump the way she wants."

Dorian is breathing too fast, his lips pressed into a thin line, but he doesn't interrupt.

"But give me a little credit," Bull says, sliding his hand slowly over Dorian's shoulder to curl it around the back of his neck. "She can dig all day, because she's not going to get what she wants."

"She always gets what she wants," Dorian says bitterly.

"No," Bull says. Despite his tone, Dorian isn't pulling away, so Bull dares to cup his cheek with the other hand. "No, she doesn't. She's not going to get what she wants, because I don't give a shit what she thinks."

Dorian's gaze flicks pointedly to his eye patch.

"Okay, yeah," Bull admits, "I'd be just as happy not to go there with her. But you think I don't get weird, dumbass questions about it every day?"

"I remember how you reacted the first time I touched it," Dorian says. His voice--hell, his whole body--is shaking with anger even as he makes a fist in the front of Bull's shirt. "She doesn't get to do to you what-"

He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes darting left and then right as if he's just remembered they're on a public street. People are definitely giving them sideways looks, but no one's lingering close enough to overhear, so Bull finishes the sentence for him: "She doesn't get to do to me what she does to you?"

"No," Dorian snaps, "she doesn't."

There are a lot of things Bull could say: about Aquinea, about Rilienus, about Dorian. He sticks to talking about himself, at least for now. "It's not the same," he says, careful to keep his voice down. No need to give people any more of a show than they already are. "I get questions about it all the time. Yeah, it used to bug me, but I got over it." Dorian looks like he's about to call bullshit, and Bull scrambles for the right words. "There's a difference between you seeing the scar and me walking around every day. I can't be that sensitive about it, right?"

"Right." It's grudging, but it is agreement.

"So it's the same thing. The average asshole on the street? I don't care. Your mother? I don't care. You?" He pulls Dorian in and kisses his forehead, letting that hide his face. "I care."

Dorian's shoulders slump, and his fists in Bull's shirt relax without letting go completely. "Sorry," he mumbles into Bull's palm. "And another sorry for the number of times I've said sorry today."

"Forget it," Bull says. He kisses Dorian's forehead again, then tilts his head back to kiss him on the mouth. "Seriously."

"This was a terrible idea," Dorian says. "For fuck's sake, what was I thinking?"

"Forget it," Bull says, more emphatically. "Maybe it would have turned out fine. No way to know until you tried, and we came out of it just fine. No bruises even."

"Except that I've been an asshole," Dorian says.

"Your mother will get over it."

Dorian laughs a little. "I meant to you."

"It's fine," Bull says, kissing him again because why not? "Besides, you're hot when you do that."

"What, yell at you?" Dorian asks, eyebrows lifting. "I don't remember that being on your 'yes' list."

"Nah," Bull says, letting go of Dorian's face and stepping back before he forgets himself and does something completely inappropriate. "Not the yelling."

"What, then?" Dorian asks curiously, letting Bull take his hand and pull him gently in the direction of the parking lot.

"I thought you were buying me lunch," Bull says, grinning.

"You're an asshole," Dorian informs him.

"Lots of people have said so," Bull agrees. "But I'm a hungry asshole, so what are we eating?"

Dorian smirks, and that more than anything lets Bull relax. "I have some suggestions."

"You also have a meeting," Bull reminds him. "So how about we do lunch now, and suggestions later?"

"Will later also include you telling me exactly what part of this disaster you found arousing?"

"If you ask nicely," Bull says, and grins when Dorian laughs.


End file.
